


Silent Comes the Dawn

by PadawanTimeLord



Series: Lusus Naturae [2]
Category: Marvel
Genre: Angst, Basically a Agent of Asgard AU, Eventual Smut, F/M, Humor and Horror, I promise all of you, Loki is a sweetheart, Psychic Abilities, Reader is a BAMF, So much angst, What is Cannon?, so much smut that every time someone reads this story a nun will burst into flames, young loki
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-31
Updated: 2019-02-01
Packaged: 2019-02-25 21:10:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 39,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13221318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PadawanTimeLord/pseuds/PadawanTimeLord
Summary: College never seemed like an option for you, yet here you are. Against all odds, on scholarship, getting a degree in astrophysics. Ever since you defeated your own personal demon with the help of your green eyed angel, your life has been steadily improving itself with some hard work and focus.But he left, soon after, with no goodbyes or explanation. You don't want to admit it broke your heart but the fact of the matter is that it did. You're not sure how long it will be before you're capable of loving like that again, but it certainly isn't going to happen any time soon. But who needs a S/O in college? You work, you study, you get your masters and get a high paying job. Easy.Except maybe not. Loki's sister is a little bummed out that he's not the enthusiastic mass murderer she ordered with his resurrection, so she decides to get him a bit of motivation. At first she figures that she'll keep you chained up, hanging from the ceiling like some kind of metaphor for how 'the high can easily fall' or some similarly poetic bullshit like that, but it turns out you've got some dangerous tricks up your sleeve. Now you just have to find a way to save Loki and yourself without succumbing to the insanity around you.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again, friends. 
> 
> This one isn't going to update as much as its predecessor, so sorry about that. The first chapter is up to prove that it's definitely a thing I'm doing, and I'm going to try to have more of a word count per update. 
> 
> But this is where all the crazy fun begins (for me)! This is not going to be a trip for the faint of heart. I did definitely enjoy writing Liars in the Dark and establishing the AU where this story takes place, now I'm going to run with the idea and beat it into the ground. 
> 
> If you're new to this story... Hi! You can probably read this without the background of its prequel, though I don't suggest it because it gives you a lot of insight on the your/Loki's relationship, which is established there because I'm nitpicky when it comes to romance and need reasons behind actions. But who am I to tell you what to do? By all means, skip that if you so wish.

Seattle is nice. 

 

That’s what you say to yourself every day when you wake up. This city is nice. The Seattle College of Science and Engineering is nice. The scholarship you have is nice. Having Starbucks on literally every street block in existence is nice. The job you have on the weekends is nice. There’s really nothing you can complain about. 

 

You glare at your reflection in the mirror.  _ Nothing to complain about, _ a tiny whisper sings in your left ear,  _ nothing to complain about. _

 

You set down your book bag and splash water onto your face. You feel something wrong creeping over your shoulder, like a terrible thing is bound to happen in the near future. You’ve learned not to ignore these gut feelings since most of them end up being correct somehow, so the anxiety at the thing that’s going to happen has been keeping you up at night. You stayed awake even through all the herbal remedies you were given by your boss. 

 

You leave the bathroom, stopping by your room to put down your textbooks and get your name plate. You walk down the stairs from the apartment you’ve been staying with to the store below, a warm and cozy wicca shop. Your boss and landlord is sweeping the floor, after a naughty four year old toppled a herbal chest. The mother is apologizing profusely, but your boss is forgiving of the incident. 

 

“Children are children,” Kamaria smiles at the toddler, “Accidents happen. I’m a mother too, so I understand.” Her eyes travel naturally to the movement you make as you exit the staircase, “Ah! My trusty assistant is here. Be a dear and help me restock the crushed basil?” 

 

“On it.” You go into the back storage room to refill the herb chest. 

 

Micah, one of the shopkeepers of a white magick store where you lived with your grandparents, is distantly related to Kamaria being a third cousin twice removed or something. When you received your scholarship to USE, Micah called them up and asked them to keep an eye on you as a favor. Kamaria took ‘keep an eye on her’ as ‘have her live with you and give her a job’, so here you are, against all previous odds, in college. With an actual, paying job. Your grandmother actually wept with joy when you parted, babbling about how proud she is of you and how far you’ve come since the incident over a decade ago.

 

You set the herbs back in place and quickly reorganize the other chests that were knocked around in the process. Then you walk over to the counter and help ring someone up. The conversation the two of you have is relatively the same one that you always end up having with other customers. 

 

“Oh, you’re a student?” They’ll say when they see your sweatshirt. 

 

“Yup, I go to Seattle University S and E.” You’ll state, helping them put their items in the bag.

 

“The STEM school?” They’ll always respond, confused. They’ll look you over and then glance behind them at the shop to make sure they are, indeed, in a wicca shop. 

 

“Yes, the STEM school.” You’ll feign cheerfulness and hand them the bag. Sometimes that will be the last of the it, but other times they’ll try to drag the conversersation on. 

 

“I didn’t know you could be a wicca and a scientist!” Sometimes they will have a smug smile on their face like they’ve caught you in a lie. 

 

“At the their purest, the two practices are the same.” You’ll say in a bored tone, trying to relay the fact you’ve had this conversation countless times before and are very much sick of it. 

 

And then there are the few who try to set you up with their sister/brother/cousin/fish that also goes to USE, and those are the most infuriating. What about you is a neon sign over your head that screams ‘DATE ME’? 

 

And they’ll leave, saying something that they’re sure is clever like, “Bye, witch doctor,” or “See you later, Professor Merlin!” You’ve stopped pretending to laugh and won’t gratify their ‘pun’ with a response. 

 

The customer almost bumps into Kamaria’s oldest daughter on their way out. “Hail your conquering hero, for I have brought tidings of joy and caffeine!” Persephone announces dramatically, flouncing into the shop with a cardboard tray of Starbucks cups. 

 

“Persephone, you  _ beautiful _ witch!” You grin as she hands you your usual order, taking a sip of that delicious haven in a paper cup. 

 

“Yes, tell me you love me. I thrive on other people’s approval.” She smiles at you, flipping her braids over her shoulder and grabbing a store apron from the shelf, “I have some girls from the coven coming over tonight. You want to join us in the circle?”  

 

“Um, sure.” You agree, far more warmed up to idea of joining in with Persephone’s wiccan coven than when you first moved here. You were always open to the idea of magick, but practicing it with others after Loki- You turn and close your eyes, trying not to think of him anymore. The pain of him just  _ vanishing _ on you after everything the two of you been through still lingers, dull and aching inside your chest. 

 

You’re blissfully interrupted from your thoughts as Kamaria’s second and youngest daughter comes in. You check the time, and realize that middle schools have been let out almost an hour ago. Where has the time gone? 

The three ladies looks almost identical. If you took pictures of them separately and told someone it was the same woman at different stages of her life, they would believe you. Like their mother, Persephone and Mahina are both tall and graceful. They have flawless warm, umber skin, Mahina’s with pinkish undertones and Persephone with more violet undertones. Mahina has dark hazel eyes, with flecks of gold scattered around the pupils, while Persephone and Kamaria have melted obsidian eyes so dark you can’t see where the iris ends and the pupil begins. 

 

Kamaria always wears long, flowing skirts she makes herself, the fabrics imported from African businesses and weaved by fairly paid women. A portion of the wicca shop is dedicated to the sale of dresses and skirts she makes, and brings them in a decent amount of money. Her hair is a cloudy afro, coiled to an impossible perfection and the muted color of mahogany. Her fingers are crowded with dozens of rings, each gem projecting or warding off something specific she has in mind for the day, all of them somehow matching perfectly with the pattern of the skirt or dress she’s wearing. 

 

Persephone is going to community college for a business degree so she can take over the shop some day. Once you asked her if she ever had anything else in mind, but she shook her head and smiled, “This is my calling,” she had said, gesturing over the store, “I love this place and don’t think I can live without it.” Persephone has three piercings in each ear, and one on her nose. You don’t think you’ve ever seen her without at least two earrings on, usually ones that she made herself. Persephone handcrafts most of the jewellry sold at the store, with the exceptions of elements that had to be boiled and melted and poured into a mold, such as silver medallions and copper wards.

 

Persephone’s hair is darker than her mother’s, in raven gossamer braids that fall down to her waist. She wears flower crowns whenever she feels like being fancy, sometimes at certain rituals, or when going out to dinner on a date, or sometimes just when the mood strikes. Persephone has the biggest, friendliest smile that puts everyone, even the most uptight, at ease. She was the first person you considered your friend when you moved here because of her easy laugh and kind words.  

 

You take a sip of your coffee and work on organizing some of the stones that people get all mixy matchy. Kamaria appreciates it when you help people with the stones, she says that your vision of energy is strong and capable. You always know what people are going through when they walk through the front door, you can sense their desires in the way they hold themselves. Body language can be learned, but it’s as though your knowledge of it is inherent, deeply embedded in you the way your powers are. 

 

Once you’re confident that everything is organized the way it should be, you go over to the counter and open the ready textbook there. The time ticks by as you read and reread the chapter for physics that your class is testing on in a few days. In this shop, the random pictures and painted symbols on the wall may look like unnecessary decoration, but each sign is  a ward that keeps the whispers out and away from this place. You can’t remember a time when you’ve been able to study normally, without having to put in your headphones and destroying your ear drums to drown out distractions. 

 

Persephone hums the tune of a ritual song that she sings to druids, teasing the leaves of the potted plants to perk up. Mahina is eating the oversized cookie that Persephone was sure to purchase at Starbucks, getting crumbs on the skirt of her dress and glaring at an overweight lady picking through the herbs. 

 

_ This is nice, _ you think, looking over the two girls who have become almost sisters to you in the past few months,  _ this is very nice.  _ And it is, but something akin to dread is creeping up on you. 

 

“The gray man is coming!” Mahina announces from her place on the counter. She enjoys sitting cross legged on the checkout table and giving people judgemental stares whenever they buy ingredients for harmful things like love potions. Currently she’s doing her homework, using different color pens for each question. You check the time again. 

 

Mahina is like you. More clairvoyant than psychic, but still has the ability to see beyond the veil of glamor that creatures use to shield themselves from. Kamaria always makes sure that Mahina wears her necklace of various stones and charms to ward off evil that would hunt her for her powers, the way creatures would pick and snicker at you when you were a child. Though Mahina is only ten, its obvious that she’s wise beyond her years.  _ Here comes the gray man, _ she’ll sometimes say, twisting her not nearly as coiled hair around her hand. Soon after, a tall, middle aged man will come in for sleeping assist herbs. Always the same man, and she always announces his coming exactly ten minutes before his arrival. You’ve timed it.

 

The day is almost at its end. You go over to the tall ladder in order to restock some zen coloring books, surprisingly the best selling item your shop carries, raising your arms up high to make sure everything is organized. Your shirt rides up with your movement, showing off half of your tattoo that you got in order to cover up the cattle brand. 

 

“Loki’s sigil.” Someone says behind you. You nearly jump out of your skin and fall onto the ground in shock. 

 

“I’m sorry?” You feign ignorance, climbing down from the ladder and self consciously tugging down your shirt. It’s the gray man Mahina previously announced. He has a black goatee and dark hair with one single stripe of white combed on the side. He usually wears something that makes you think of the italian suite version of buddhist robes, perfectly trimmed tunics that never seem to be unfit in any place. He makes you and your baggy trash shirt feel awkward and bad sometimes, but hey, you’re not being paid to look pretty in college. 

 

“Loki’s sigil on your waist.” He says, arching his eyes like he caught a very naughty child doing something bad, “You’re working here in a wicca shop, so I’m going to assume that you know that symbol is associated with an ancient beast of chaos.” 

 

Is this guy trying to mansplain to you? Your fingers twitch with the urge to punch him, but you refuse to give into their desire. “It looked cool.” You say in a half lie, turning back around and closing the box of coloring books. The tattoo you got does look wickedly awesome, a snake with two heads on the opposite of their body twisted into an embrace that looked a bit like two infinity signs placed together to form a cross. 

 

“Of course it did.” He shakes his head and walks over to the herbal counter to get his regular dosage. 

 

“Good evening, Stephen.” Kamaria greets him while she rings up his order, “How have you been sleeping.”

 

“Better.” He responds gruffly, checking over his shoulder to see if you were still watching. 

 

“That’s good to hear! Tell the trainees I said hello.” Kamaria smiles through her teeth, you can tell her maternal side wants to admonish him for his rudeness, but her long years in customer service give her the patience to deal with him. 

 

“Sure.” He pays and leaves. 

 

“That guy is a know-it-all dick.” Persephone mutters to you, shaking her head while she grabs a broom.

 

“Persephone!” Kamaria sighs, “We each are in different walks in life. I’m sure he has something going on right now.” 

 

“Or he’s an asshole.” Persephone suggests, aggressively sweeping a pile of dust in the corner. 

 

“He’s sad. He lost something important to him.” Mahina states, scribbling some incoherent garble in her workbook. She wrinkles her nose like she just remembered something yucky, “He likes money too much.” 

 

“See? An asshole.” Persephone picks up the dustbin and throws its contents in the trash. She turns to you, “We still on for tonight? Jezebelle’s bringing her famous country hash.” 

 

You’re still a little anxious about socializing, but it’s impossible to say no Jezebelle’s deep south country cooking. It tastes like a southern version of Gram’s, and it gives you a calm sense of home when you eat. 

 

“Okay, I’ll be there.” You agree. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any suggestions of how I can make these fine people suffer? Please write them in the comments! Don't worry, I just have to get things moving in this story and then we can have Hela's minions kidnap you.
> 
> It'll be fun. I promise.


	2. Chapter 2

Persephone’s coven is probably the most supportive group of girls you’ve ever been involved in. Not that your frame of reference is very large, since the only other groups you’ve ever been associated with are the Girl Scouts and a bible study. Your mom had you quit Girl Scouts when you were seven because you didn’t like the scoutmate with the bloody eyes, the one that no one else acknowledged and acted strange when you mentioned her. And as for bible study…. You tried going to Youth Group for Gram when you started getting better. No one wanted you there, and soon you decided you’d rather walk across the block to Micah’s shop and help him make magick tea. 

 

Jezebelle and her girlfriend Harmony arrive first. Harmony is small, barely five feet, but that is not a reason to underestimate her. Her black hair is in a bob, her bangs moved out of her face in a pastel green headband. Her eyes are gray, solemn, but when she smiles,  _ she smiles.  _ Her mother is a second generation Korean and her father is a recently immigrated Korean, so her lifestyle growing up was rather strict. You can still see it all the time, in her posture when she stands, how she can get almost anything done when she works hard, and her clothes, though more vivid and flued, are always perfectly fitted with function over fashion in mind. There’s something inside her that’s deeply troubled. She hasn’t told you where she got the scars on her wrists, but you know. 

 

Jezebelle is holding a foil wrapped pan, the smell of her famous hash wafting over and causing your mouth to water. “Hey, friend of mine,” Jezebelle greets you, her smile gentle and sweet, “Have you been sleeping better?” 

 

The first few nights you were here, something would tap on your window. Gentle at first, like a lover trying to wake you to talk. When you first heard it, your dumb and lovesick mind went straight to the impossible: Loki was back, and trying to contact you. Even though every cell in your body was softly whimpering that something wasn’t right, you threw open your curtains, and promptly had a heart attack. A life sized china doll face was staring at you, eyes empty and perfectly painted mouth in a sick and twisted grin. 

 

You quickly closed the curtains again, took some anxiety pills, and tried to get some more sleep. But whatever was outside had other ideas.  _ Let me in, _ you heard it hiss in your mind,  _ let me in, sweet girl. Let’s play. _ It got more violent the more you ignored it, shaking the window and snarling louder and louder. New creatures in new environments, you supposed. You were just going to have to get used to it. 

 

Kamaria knew by your sleepless eyes that something was wrong, and not just jet lag. She asked you how you slept, and since you didn’t know her very well you shrugged and answered non committedly. She gave you an aggressive mom stare, something you weren’t overly familiar with since your mom died a while back, but let it slide. The next night the knocking was back, the words in roars. You didn’t get up to look out the window again, you just rolled yourself into a blanket burrito and tried to sleep. The next morning, Kamaria greeted you again at breakfast, lips pursed in an expression you have since learned means she’s waiting for you to confess something. 

 

She had a cup of coffee ready for your consumption, but before she slid it over to you she said, “You  _ do _ know I’m aware of your particular set of gifts, right?” She handed you the mug, “You can trust me with these things, hun. I’m here to help.” 

 

And so that day you made a decision to trust her, something you’ve never regretted since. Kamaria told Persephone’s coven about the Kobold, the trickster spirit that decided it would be  _ just hilarious _ to aggressively bang on your window all night. The ladies in the coven took care of it real quick with a short banishing ceremony, helping you paint on wards along your wall to help silence the night prowlers. 

 

“I’ve been doing a lot better.” You say, helping opening the door in the back that leads down the the basement. Kamaria keeps the more expensive potion ingredients and charms down there, the wooden door entrance scribed with a spell that keeps those unnecessary from noticing it. 

 

“Good to hear,” Jezebelle carefully walks down the stairs to set her dish on the waiting table, Harmony at her heels like a duckling following its mother. You wait on the top of the stairs for Ophelia, the last girl coven member who has the tendency to be late. Sure enough, twelve minutes past the meetup time the ginger haired girl steps through the store entrance, large bag filled with art supplies from her day upstate painting murals. 

 

Ophelia is the only girl in the coven with talent for the brush. She’s the one who painted the wards were so beautifully and daintily along the wall, decorating the space in between with flowers so realistic you can almost smell them. To anyone else who wouldn’t know better, they would never guess that the incredibly detailed artwork on the wall facing the street are spells designed by a wicca coven. 

 

“Hello,” Ophelia smiles at you, stepping aside so you can lock the outside door. 

 

“Hi,” You’re still getting used to how open and nice everyone is. Sure, the country has its southern charm, but in a town where everyone knew everyone, the passive aggressiveness reaches high peaks when someone doesn’t meet the status quo. Someone like you. So here in the anonymity of the big city, it’s great to be ignored. But the selective few who get to know you are nice, even with knowledge of your ‘condition’. 

 

Unfortunately, ‘schizophrenia due to PTSD’ is permanently stamped on your medical record, even if you’re able to pretend like you’re all better. Not that there’s technically anything wrong with you in the first place. 

 

Persephone’s coven is small, only the three other girls besides herself. Though you can tell she also considers  _ you _ part of her coven, something you’re a little iffy about but ultimately don’t mind. You do sometimes participate in their rituals, where they try to bring good luck and fortune to each other, or pray to forgotten nature spirits to bless the trees in the park, or do equally innocent spells such as that. Other times you skip out to study for school. 

 

Once you are sure the store’s main entrance is secure, you pass Mahina pouting on your way back down to the basement. 

 

“I want to go, too.” She frowns, and you can feel how bad it feels for her to be left out. A small bit of guilt pricks you in the stomach, but Kamaria is firm.

 

“Bedtime, sweet thing. The girls are going to be down there late, and you have to be ready for school tomorrow.” 

 

Mahina doesn’t stomp her foot, she just pulls her face into a tighter glare. 

 

“She can come down with us just for the first half.” Persephone offers, writing in a small notebook about the herbs she’s taking from the store to use in the rituals tonight, “Have a plate of hash, then go back upstairs before we end the ceremony and have individual prayer.” Mahina rockets her head back to her mother and nods so hard you’re almost afraid her neck will detach from her body, wordlessly begging for that compromise. 

 

Kamaria smiles at her eldest’s offer, “I think that will work out perfectly. Mahina,” she glances back down to the younger daughter, “No complaining when I come fetch you.”

 

“None.” Mahina promises. 

 

“Then go,” Kamaria nods, watching Mahina’s head of curls bounce uncontrollably as she skips over to the stairs, and adds, “Be careful!” 

 

“Alright. We’re good here if you are, Mom.” Persephone proclaims, shouldering her bag and giving the shop one last once over to make sure the closing has been done properly. 

 

“I’ll take care of the rest, Persie. The gumbo is almost ready, I’ll bring it down in just a minute.” 

 

You and Persephone head down the stairs where the other girls are setting the center table for the mid mass supper. Persephone heads the ceremony, reciting the words of blessing while you, Ophelia, Jezebelle, and Harmony all light the four candles of the Four Quarters. She casts the circle with the athame, purifying the ground in the basement so the spirits, angels, or gods you pray to will hear your words better and be invited into the space. Think of the purification as cleaning up a bit before having guests. 

 

Once you all rid the ground of dirtied spirits, Persephone leads you all into a good health prayer, then breaks the supper out. The six of you sit around a square table, sharing food and talking about the week that’s gone by since they last saw you. This religion is about camaraderie, something that you definitely appreciate. Everyone listens just as attentively to Mahina, nodding as she talks about her middle school problems, asking questions and making her feel special. 

 

You take a sip of your hard cider. Ophelia is the only one in the group that’s 21, so she’s on alcohol duty. Kamaria doesn’t mind, hard apple cider has very little alcohol percentage in it. Plus, Christian have wine in their masses and no one bats an eye at that. The traditional Wicca Ceremonies involve ale, however any kind of weak alcohol like beer or mead does fine for non orthodox worshippers. Kamaria does have her limits though, so Mahina is daintily sipping her apple juice, pretending very hard she’s drinking booze like everyone else.  

 

Kamaria, true to her word, comes to fetch Mahina just as supper comes to an end. Though you can see Mahina is immensely disappointed, she tries very hard to keep her mouth from twisting into her signature pout and follows her mother back up the stairs without argument. 

 

“Bye, sweetie! I can’t wait to see you next week.” Jezebelle is sure to tell Mahina, before she disappears beyond the door, the other girls chiming in their agreement. Mahina smiles weakly back, giving you all a half hearted wave before shutting the door behind her. 

 

“She’s a cutie.” Ophelia states picking at the remains of her plate. “Definitely strong. She’ll be a fabulous conduit when she’s older.” 

 

“When she’s in a good mood.” Persephone rolls her eyes, “She can be difficult sometimes. Today she was on her best behavior because she knew mom wouldn’t let her back down if she threw a tantrum.” 

 

“All kids can be difficult sometimes.” You try to offer your limited experience. You have a half sister, you faintly remember your step mother being pregnant during the brief time your biological father had custody of you. Babysitting was always out of the question. Everyone was certain that a child in your care would end up dead, either by negligence or psychotic break. 

 

You all finish the ceremony, blowing out the candles to finalize the blessing. 

 

“You know what you should try?” Ophelia says to you, “You should try astral projection. Have you done that before?”

 

“No?” You frown, helping Persephone clear the plates. 

 

“You’re a strong spirit! I bet you could travel through the astral plane first try.” Ophelia grins at you, collecting the special cider goblets, hand wash only with pentagrams carved in the front. 

 

“Maybe not on your  _ first _ try,” Harmony shrugs, drying the silverware while Jezebelle washes, “But yeah, with your raw psychic talent, you’d probably be a natural at that.” 

 

“Oh, you should try that tonight!” Persephone exclaims, “We haven’t gotten you to do anything with your powers yet.”

 

Which is true. You haven’t done anything significantly psychic-y since you, Loki, and whats-her-name banished the wyrm from the Earth. You haven’t the motivation or the need. 

 

“I don’t know.” You say, setting the stack of plates into the huge tub of a sink, “I’m not really good at the whole spirit thing.” 

 

“Which is why you should practice!” Persephone crosses her arms and arches her eyebrows, “How are you supposed to get better when you aren’t doing anything to expand your talent?” 

 

“I have to draw something every day or my hands will get all rusty.” Ophelia adds, and for emphasis she shows them to you, “See?”

 

“I really don’t, I have to admit.” You say. There’s no evidence that her hands are any better than the average person’s, besides some paint smudges on the underside of her wrist. 

 

“You just need to practice. And what better place than here, with us?” Now Persephone is cajoling you. You know from experience that once she’s set her mind on something, she won’t let up. Training your psychic abilities is now her life mission. You’re a bit weary.

 

“Okay. Okay, fine.” You help Jezebelle push the table from the center of the room, and Ophelia lays a yoga mat down for you. Persephone kneels by your head, Ophelia by your left side, Harmony on your right, and Jezebelle by your feet. All four of them strike matches in unison, lighting the candles of their respective quarters to help keep any unseemly critters from interrupting the seance. 

 

Persephone sprinkles some herbs into the flame of her candle, to help with your psychic energy. “Alright. Step one: relax.” 

 

“I’m trying.” Though the girls mean well, being the center of attention makes you nervous. You can’t just ‘relax’ on command. 

 

“Now go into a hypnagogic state.” Persephone says.

 

“A what?”

 

“Half asleep.”

 

How are you supposed to relax enough to fall half asleep? You close your eyes and try. After a few minutes of you trying to think of what to eat for lunch to quille the boredom, Persephone states, “You’re not relaxed enough.”

 

“I know.” Is all you say in response. 

 

“Maybe we call it a night and try this again next week?” Jezebelle suggests, standing up and stretching her stiff legs. 

 

“Sorry.” You mumble, sitting up as the other girls blow out their candles. 

 

“Nothing to be sorry for, you haven’t had any practice.” Ophelia reassures you, twisting her torso and sighing with relief at the sharp cracks that happen in her joints. 

 

“You’ll probably do it your second time.” Harmony stands by her previous statement. 

 

“Maybe.” You have zero confidence in your skills. 

 

Your preparation for bed has changed dramatically since the wards and spells have been painted on your wall. You change into your pajamas without worrying about pervy ghosts watching you from the window, because apparently living three stories up from ground has little to no effect on beings without corporal bodies. You brush your teeth without the fear of bloodied messages scribbling themselves in your mirror. And you lay in bed with only the sounds of the night city to put you to sleep. 

 

You close your eyes and feel wind brush against your bare skin. It’s cold, and though winters in Washington can get pretty chilly, it’s late summer and your window should shut tight. You open your eyes and see a hellscape of frost and snow. 

 

Giant crystalline ice cliffs jut from the ground, clear as glass and smooth from years of wind. The air is still, too still. Not a hint of wind, you can’t even see your breath fogging in front of you even though it’s probably minus forty degrees. You look up at the night sky, all twisted and wrong from what you know of the celestial map. Your easily spotted sky mark of Orion is nowhere to be found, no other familiar constellations dotting the sky, either. A richly blue moon, far smaller than  _ your _ moon is overhead, like a glittering sapphire. At the sound of a thunderclap, you turn to see a blizzard fast approaching in the distance, lightning striking through the clouds.

 

That can’t be good. You spin around, trying to locate some sort of shelter to wait out the storm in. Nothing. Nothing for miles. You feel a brush of breeze through your hair, gentle at first, but them growing rapidly more violent as the first wall of snowflakes slam into your body. Your teeth begin to chatter you you try desperately to outrun the storm, but it’s fast, too fast,  _ too fast- _

 

Your entire side bursts with pain. Your eyes snap open and you’re laying on the floor of your room. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoa! Where did you go? I wonder.
> 
> Jk, being the author I actually know where you astral projected to. 
> 
> Coming up with characters is fun! I'm sorry that I don't involve more Marvel characters in what is a Marvel fanfiction, but character design is literally my favorite thing to do in both art and writing so I'm sorry, but I'm probably not going to stop. 
> 
> But things are starting to pick up! Maybe next time you astral project, you'll see a certain someone. Who knows? Oh wait, I know. Because I'm the author.


	3. Chapter 3

“How did you sleep?” Kamaria’s sitting on the breakfast table in the kitchen, holding your usual mug with coffee, fixing you with the expectant Mother Stare Xtreme. 

 

“I had a nightmare.” You admit, accepting the cup she slides you across the table. 

 

“What about?” She asks, getting up and making a cup of coffee for herself. The keurig steams and hisses as it heats up, adding some nice ambient nose and relaxing you. 

 

“I…” You frown. You were running, but what from? “I was cold. And I think there was something chasing me, but I don’t remember.”

 

Kamaria adds cream and sugar to her coffee, sitting back down in front of you. “Dreams are tricky things to decipher. Sometimes they really are just things our brains come up with to keep us entertained during the REM cycle, or psychological facts that our subconscious wants to bring to the surface. But sometimes they are warnings from our guardians of what is to come.” 

 

You feel a chill run down your spine and smell some cool and green. Something warm and familiar, the smell of home and safety. You know immediately  _ who  _ it smells like, but instead of wondering how the hell it’s hitting you now you do your best to ignore it. 

 

“But, since you can’t remember it, I’m sure it’s nothing.” Kamaria puts her hand over yours in a comforting gesture, “Just be careful, alright?”

“Alright.” You don’t need to be told twice. The weather forecast says it’s supposed to be sunny, but as always the sky is shrouded in a thick layer of clouds, fog wisping against your ankles as you walk down the street. The scent of rain feels crisp and clean in the air, a light sprinkle slowly falling from the sky. You don’t have an umbrella, but no one in Washington uses umbrellas except for hurricane-like conditions. And even then, eyes will squint accusingly at the few who give up, as though the ones who crack first aren’t worthy of living in the Pacific Northwest.

 

Your campus is a decently spread collection of old buildings right in the center of town. The main building used to be a business office, and it’s since been gutted and converted into two large auditoriums and multiple classrooms on the floors above. Today there’s a special master class that your astronomy professor was sure all his students got a spot in, a guest is here to talk about her career and work in astrophysics in the first auditorium. You flash your student ID at one of the security guards manning the entrance, settling in on one of the seats in the high back. 

 

“Have you heard of Jane Foster before?” One of your classmates asks you, his notebook out and pens set on top of it. You’ve never seen him actually take notes, just stare at the speakers and memorize everything they say. You wish you have that kind of memory. 

 

“Um, yes?” You can’t believe that this person is asking you about  _ Jane fucking Foster _ in an  _ astronomy class. _ “She’s a candidate for the Nobel Prize for her work in Einstein-Rosen Bridges. I heard she helped save London a few years ago.” Alien invasion. Of all things. And people have a hard time believing  _ you _ when you see shadows move on their own. But oh, no, aliens leveling some of the biggest cities and no one bats an eye at that. 

 

“Who are you talking to?” One of your other classmates ask, perplexingly. 

 

You turn back to the first one and see that he’s still there, smiling at you.

 

“Do you want to go out for coffee sometime?” He asks, his grin showing his teeth. His canine teeth are elongated and sharp, like fangs. You’re not sure if the barred teeth are a threat or not. 

 

“Um, bluetooth phone.” You lie to your other classmate, Jenna. Slowly, you turn away and stare straight at the podium, not daring to glance back at even even though all the hairs on your arms and neck are standing straight up. 

 

You recognize her from the London incident around… when was it? You’re bad with time, but it was a good while ago. She’s aged gracefully, her salt and pepper hair falling down to her waist in almost a hippy, eccentric professor style. She’s a genius, and that’s coming from you, another certifiable genius. Doctor Foster’s work is so profound, most of it is shielded by the government. Didn’t she work with aliens that one time? What were they called? Az-something. Great. Now you’ll barely be able to pay attention to the rest of the lecture because you’ll be busy trying to remember this.

 

Then it hits you. Why hadn’t you thought of it before? Asgard. Loki said something about being from  _ Asgard. _ Your body buzzes and you can barely comprehend everything around you. You feel the urge to throw your textbook somewhere, just to get this sudden burst of adrenaline out of the system.

You need to talk to her. 

 

You get snippets of her speech in tiny bits, but the most of your brain power during the rest of the lecture is trying to figure out how to A) approach her alone and B) find a way to explain your situation without sounding horribly insane. 

 

Suddenly, everyone around you is clapping. Jolted out of your haze, you stand and copy them like a limp doll. She hangs around for a minute, answering questions from other professors while most of the student body leaves. A few, like you, probably want to talk to her. But you hang in the back and pretend to be writing something on your laptop. 

 

After what seemed like hours, though your clock says it was only a few minutes, she leaves through the back. You get your bookbag and walk up through the normal exit, then swing around through the alley where they dump the trash and squeeze between the slightly open chain link fence. There she is, right by a large bus that you recognize as her sciencemobile, chock full of billion dollar equipment that makes your mouth positively water to think about. 

 

“Um, Doctor Foster?” You approach her slowly, thinking about how disheveled you look. Dark circles under eyes, coat askew. “Could I have just a second of your time?” 

 

She’s with her assistant, a younger woman you remember as Darcy. Doctor Foster looks you over, her mouth pinched. “Of course,” She says, not meaning it. Oh, boy, you’re walking on eggshells. 

 

“I really, well, I’m a fan of your work. I was just wondering what it’s like… working with Asgardians. If you don’t mind.” Best approach the subject gently as possible. 

 

“Kiddo, I don’t want to seem rude, but you can go online and find an interview I did about the subject.” Doctor Foster responds, sounding rather tired. 

 

“Sorry. Um, what do you know about Jottenheim?” You try to change the subject at breakneck speed to regain your ground. 

 

She frowns at that, “Jottenheim?”

 

Darcy looks at you, “Is that information even declassified yet?” She whispers, though loud enough for you to hear.

 

Doctor Foster looks you over again, sees your raw desperation barely contained inside your body. You try not to look ready to jump her, but the adrenaline from this encounter is pumping your veins with energy. “What do you know about Jottenheim?”

 

“Not much,” You admit, trying to collect some courage, trying to figure out what to say next. “I knew someone from there. He’s gone now.” 

 

Darcy and Doctor Foster both exchange looks. Uh oh, you know that exchange from back in Crowley. When you say too much about what you see, how the people around you would look at each other like that. The mutual exchange of two sane people agreeing that you’re crazy. 

 

“What’s the hold up?” Someone pops their head out from the bus. You blink at her rapidly, not believing your eyes. Mrs. Blakesley. The secretary from the psychiatric clinic you went to once a week back in Crowley. 

 

The two of you meet eyes. Questions flood through your mind,  _ what is she doing here, why is she with Jane Foster,  _ the questions quickly spiraling into terror,  _ what if she tells, what if she disregards you, what if she calls security. _ Oh my gods, your record. You’ve been on your best behavior to erase the memory of schizophrenia in people’s minds, one sentence from her can bring everything down.  _ Don’t tell don’t tell don’t tell don’t tell. _

 

“I didn’t know you go to school,” Mrs. Blakesley, if that even is her name, says slowly, looking you over, “You look… well.” The last bit you know is an exaggeration. 

 

“I’m sorry for bothering you.” You mumble to Doctor Foster, doing a snappy 180 turn and leaving the way you came. Hesitantly, you stop once you’re out of sight but not out of earshot.  _ What is she doing here? _ The question bounces around over and over in your mind, violently. You lean in to hear their conversation, though all you hear is muffled talking. You close your eyes and reach out, your mind teasing its way further from your body until it’s close enough to hear their conversation. 

 

You still only hear small bits and pieces of their words. You want to push further, but an angry pain in the front of your skull starts when you try. Something warm and sticky oozes from your nose. 

“Started in LA….” You used to live in LA with your father. “Strange occurrences…”

 

“Why… after London… get informed?”

 

 “Called out a 0-8-4… All I know.”

 

“In… plains?”

 

“They wanted surveillance.” Oh, you hear that one clearly. You recoil. 

 

You don’t exactly want to jump to conclusions, but the evidence suggests that some organization had your psychiatrist’s secretary keep an eye on you.  You don’t even know what for except… except your abilities. Your spine tingles, the fear returning to your system. So someone knows that about what you can do. They sent someone to keep an eye on you where you used to live. They have a desire to have you watched. If Mrs. Blakesley, probably not her real name, is no longer watching you, then the question is…

Who is now? 

 

You run back to the wicca shop, bile rising in your throat. Rain causes the sidewalks to be slippery, but you’re seasoned enough in this kind of weather so that there’s no need for you to slow down. Panic distorts your vision, you feel your lungs crushing underneath some unseen weight. You can’t breath, you can’t breath… 

 

You stumble into the shop, wheezing for air. 

 

“Oh my god!” Persephone exclaims when she sees you, horror on her features, “Are you okay? What happened?” 

 

With shaking hands you dig through your pockets for a stray pill of your anxiety medication. “I can’t- I can’t-” 

 

“Stay here.” She’s running up the stairs, you can hear someone banging around in the floor above you and then the footsteps growing fainter as she reaches the third story. One stray minute and she’s back down with one of your pill bottles and a glass of water carefully balanced on her hand. She opens the bottle and hands you one, but you reach in with shaking hands to grab two more. You swallow them with water and sit down in the middle of the floor, wrapping your arms around you knees and ducking your head face down between them. 

 

_ Someone is watching you someone is watching you someone is watching you someone is watching you  _ _ someone is watching you someone is watching you someone is watching you someone is watching you _

 

Your brain pounds with pain, a dull throb right between your eyes. 

 

“Honey?” You hear Kamaria’s voice over your head. Persephone must have fetched her. 

 

_ Someone is watching you someone is watching you someone is watching you someone is watching you someone is watching you someone is watching you _

 

Could it be Kamaria? Surely not. She’s been at this shop for years, you can’t build a business overnight. Could you? Would that mean Persephone and Mahina are in on it, too? Paranoia shutters through your body. Surely not,  _ surely not. _ But you don’t know for sure. Tears fall, salty mixing with copper on your tongue. You need to get out of the store, you’re probably scaring off the customers. 

 

_ If they are ‘customers’. _ What if the next person who walks through that door is the spy? You start shaking. 

 

_ Someone is watching you someone is watching you someone is watching you someone is watching you _

 

“Honey, if you can hear me, I’m going to try to get you upstairs.” Strong hands take your wrists, prying them from their place. Kamaria manages to help lift you to your feet, leading you to the stairs. Slowly, you manage to stumble forward, letting Kamaria lead you like a lost dog. Somehow the two of you make it to your room. 

 

“Do you want me stay?” Her hands are cool and smooth against your forehead. You shake your head, you don’t like people seeing you like this. You hear her exhale, though you’re not sure if its from disappointment or relief. Her hand retracts. “Alright. I’ll be down in the shop if you need me.” You hear her leave, placing a small object between your door and the frame to keep it open. You close your eyes and try to relax, but can’t.

  
_Someone is watching you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the plot thickens! 
> 
> Who are you going to meet in dreamland, I wonder?
> 
> I actually had to write this chapter twice. I wasn't happy with its first incarnation and had to take a little inspiration browse on Pinterest to get into the Pacific Gothic mood. Sorry if my writing seems a little washed out, I'm trying to keep a schedule but at the same time keep it personal and inspired.


	4. Chapter 4

You’re standing in the middle of a ludicrously large bedroom. 

 

One might wonder what one should do if they somehow find themselves in a bedroom of this size. In fact, at first you weren’t sure if this room is just a bedroom, but an equally ludicrously large bed sits in the center, wide as at least two king mattresses and would require some leg muscle for you to get onto. The walls are decorated with strands of black metal, intricately spiraling up and around each other in some sort of complicated pattern, too symmetrical to be accidental or meaningless. Large runes are burnt into the actual wall behind the wire.

 

Bookshelves surround what looks like to be a study area, a desk for someone your size is in the center, a candle lit and gently puddling in its bowl. _ Someone must be busy, _ you muse, staring at the wild scribbles and markings that cover stray pieces of paper in a notebook. Scrolls and books so old they look like they may crumble between your clumsy fingers lay open on and around the desk, as though someone was frantically searching for something. Something glimmers in the candlelight, your eyes jumping to it instantly. 

 

A long chain leads to what you assume is the exit, the end drilled into the center of the floor. The metal is shiny black, and you can tell from just looking at it that it’s heavy as all fuck. Near the assumed exit, a single cuff lay, wide enough to lock around a shin. The two doors look like they could take a beating… and had. Large gashes from a blade and huge dents in the metal smatter across the doors, like something was trying very hard to get out. 

 

This is a cage, you realize with dawning horror, a cage to keep something immensely, perhaps monstrously powerful, inside. 

 

A loud thump from the doors. You wildly look around for a place to hide, and quickly slip around the bed and to the other side, hiding behind a bedpost as thick as your waist. Scuffling, cursing. A loud metallic snap, then the doors slam. Whatever is meant to be held in these walls is stuck with you now. The chain drags toward you. You look around wildly for a weapon, grabbing ahold of the wire decorating the bed and hoping to twist it free as quietly as possible. No luck. 

 

The chains stop on the other side of the room, where the makeshift study is. A small, sniveling part of you that’s leftover from an age where humans were primarily food whimpers that you should stay where you are, frozen, and hope it doesn’t see you. Another part of you from more recent human evolution says that you should show that thing who’s boss first chance you get. You creep forward slowly, doing your best not to make a sound against the hard marble floor, peeking around the edge of the bed. You don’t dare breath.

 

It’s not some horrendous, half formed and porous creature that you expected to see. It’s a very slim person, taller than you but not enough to warrant this kind of security, you think. Black hair, slightly long and scraggly as though this person gave themself a trim haphazardly with ragged knifes. Hunched over their work, searching through a scroll for something, making notes in a leatherbound notebook. Gaunt and pale. Wearing a tight green shirt, no sleeves, bare arms showing off awful marks from being cuffed in multiple places. 

 

You take a step closer. The person hears you, you barely have time to think before a head whips around and you’re face to face with beautiful ethereal green eyes, dull with hunger and surrounded by dark circles. They widen in shock.

 

You’re frozen when you realize it’s him. Your fists clench at your sides, nails digging bloody crescents into your palms. You want to scream. You want to take his shoulders and shake him, demand why he left you without saying anything. You want to tell him he’s a horrible person, you want to be snide and you want to be awful. But when he looks at you with a mix of terror, surprise, and (oh god oh god oh god)  _ love _ , you’re back on that farm, a younger girl with no hope of a better life. 

 

“You left me.” All those thoughts funnel down to the three words that keep running round and round in your head. Tears smart your eyes, even though you try to reassure yourself that there’s no reason to cry. 

 

He’s standing now, taking a hesitant step towards you. The chain on his leg drags, the sound of metal on stone making an echo in the room. Loki stops just before you, raising his hand as though to hesitantly touch your face. Fury rises in your stomach, something acidic flooding your throat. The anger, the resentment is a soft thing that blossoms into something hideous. You grasp it when you feel it, nurturing it until it swallows away your tears and lets you speak without warbling and choking. 

 

You close the distance between the two of you, your face inches away from his. His hand is hovering right by your cheek, as though the idea of contact between the two of you is equal parts desired and daunted. His fingers are trembling when you lift your chin to look at him in the eyes, your voice becoming strong as the anger courses through you, “You  _ left  _ me.”

 

“I did.” He doesn’t try to deny it, and that throws you off. You want excuses, you want his lies to crush beneath your feet. 

 

“Why.” It’s not a question, it’s an order. You have to stand on the tips of your toes to make yourself bigger, more of a threatening presence. It’s kind of laughable, really. Not only is he taller than you, he’s also the one locked in an ancient, spell riddled chain. Locked in a giant’s cage. At this realization you wonder if it’s all for show, or if he truly warrants these kinds of precautions. 

 

His nostrils flare as he breathes deeply, his eyes closed. “Because you aren’t,” he coughs, an almost wheezing sound. He tried again, “Because you should not be worthy of my time.” His voice cracks, like a piece of him is breaking as he says it. He retracks his hand, taking a step back to put some distance between the two of you. 

 

It’s your worst fear. That a small, panic-stricken girl isn’t worth him. Of course. He got tired of holding your hands during the worst of your anxiety attacks, got sick of having to do your chores when you have a breakdown. Because that’s all you are, take away the anxiety and the depression and there is not much left. You feel worse than when Lois gave you a warning kick in the stomach after approaching her too fast. This… Are you having another panic attack now? Your chest is in agony. 

 

Why is he looking at you like that? His eyes are glass, following you like they are about to shatter. Bitterness fills your lungs, you breath it in and let it hurt you. Your vision clears, and you stare at this boy, this boy you who helped you regain your sanity after so long. This boy who would let you sleep in his bed with him, holding you tight and letting you cry under his covers. Who stared at you when you killed the wyrm like you were something beautiful, a deadly force to be reckoned with.

 

You rocket forward, fury boiling under your skin, and you strike him as hard as you can. He takes it, his face turning red where you hit him, but grabs your hand to stop you from doing it again. You fight, trying to keep silent as you try to pull your arm from his grasp, kicking, scratching, hissing. Hatred fills your blood and it sings at this show of violence. He lets you slowly wear yourself out, your body’s energy fading fast against his sheer strength. But you don’t stop, you only slow down.

 

He calls your name, his voice broken and terrified, begging you to stop. “They’ll hear you, please, please.” You want to strangle him, wrapping your fingers around his pearly neck. But another chain is there, you notice. A collar made from the same metal lining the walls, choking off his breath and keeping him from eating much. A symbol on the center, you stare at it as you writhe from his grasp, burning it into memory. You manage to pull yourself from him, though you know he’s just given up on holding you captive. 

 

“Someone’s keeping you here.” Your voice feels raw, like you’ve been screaming for hours. Something inside you is dead, you don’t know if it's the hope that Loki still loves you, or the sparkly eyed girl you were when you first moved to Seattle. You feel numb. Dull. 

 

“Yes.” Once again, he’s not denying anything. He also looks like a part of him broke away in your attack, as though you managed to do some actual damage on him. 

 

You don’t ask any more questions. You don’t want to know if he came here willingly or not, you don’t want to know if something lured him away from your family, away from you and your clusterfuck of problems. You turn around so he can’t see you fall apart, you don’t want him to be privy to any more of your weaknesses. “I see.” You can hear someone calling for you, a voice far, far away you think you’re imagining it at first. You close your eyes, twin tears slipping down your carefully schooled face. 

 

You hear your name, louder. Something is sitting on your chest, it’s suddenly harder to breath.

 

When you open your eyes again, you see Mahina’s hazel eyes close to your’s, a little too close for comfort. She’s sitting on your chest, her weight heavy enough to cut off a portion of your lung capacity. “Wake up!” She’s yelling along with your name, your ears feeling violated with both her outrageous volume and sheer proximity. Gods, that child has a good set of vocal cords. 

 

“I’m awake.” Though still groggy, and you feel like you’ve swallowed a sock. A very gross sock. You recognize the bitter aftertaste of your anxiety pills.

 

“The grey man is coming.” That appears the be the only thing Mahina wanted to tell you, because she crawls off of you and hops out of your room. You stare after her, checking the time. It’s been an hour since you got back from school, your entire body shivering at the leftover terror of being watched. Something buzzes in your ear, you swat at it but it goes nowhere. 

 

You pull yourself out of bed and look over at your reflection in the mirror. Your hair is scraggly and knotted from thrashing against your pillow, your eyes cold as steel and almost lifeless. Dark circles under your eyes make you look almost dead. You  _ feel _ dead, or assume that this is probably what dead people feel. The grey man is coming, you muse, lifting your shirt to look at your tattoo of Loki’s sigil.

 

_  A symbol is associated with an ancient beast of chaos, _ he said. You need to corner him and ask what else he knows, because besides Norse Mythology which you assume is more mythology than fact, there’s not much available to the public about Loki. You searched and searched online documents best you could when he left, trying to find out where he came from and where he might possibly have gone, but without a surname the public records couldn’t give you much. The entire time you knew it was futile, but you still wanted try  _ something, _ something that could be counted as not giving up. 

 

You clean yourself up best you can, then slip downstairs behind the herbal table just as the ten minute mark is up. He comes through the door, looking his usual condescending, uppity self in tailored clothes from Middle Earth. No one should be walking around in Seattle looking like they wandered off a set from the next cheesy fantasy movie looking that absurdly confident. But for whatever reason, it works for him. It makes you want to punch him in the face even more. 

 

You do your best to strike an intimidating pose, arm on the counter and hand on your jutted hip, legs crossed in a punkish style. You fix him with a glare as soon as he walks over, hoping your mildly soulless eyes will be off putting enough for him. You don’t know how you’re going to do this, ask him a question? Expect him to answer out of fear of you, a girl-child, significantly smaller than him and gaunt with sleeplessness? You don’t even have a plan other than plant yourself here and try to look as dangerous as possible. 

 

He doesn’t even look in your direction when he comes for his normal herbs, “I suppose you want me to tell you about that tattoo you put on your body permanently because you thought, and I quote, ‘it looked cool’.” 

 

You don’t like that tone, but you are also not in a position to make demands. “Yes.” You try to sound as polite as possible while keeping your pose, just for the effect. 

 

He sighs, getting a little plastic bag and measuring the herbs on a little scale to the side, meticulously measuring them out to the .000 gram. “The Norse mythology is mostly the wet dreams of hyper-masculine males who wanted the most testosterone pumped creatures to look up to. They took fact and they ran it into the ground, so anything you gathered from that information is wrong, to start.” 

 

One minute in and you’ are losing your patience with him. “I gathered that already.” 

 

“Good, that makes my job easier.” He stands up straight and walks over to the checkout counter. Persephone is looking at you wearily, taking in your nightmarish appearance. “Tell your mother I’m borrowing one of her followers for the moment.” He says to her, and Persephone also looks like she’s three snide comments from pummeling him as well. She glances at you for confirmation. 

 

You shrug. “If I’m not back in two hours call the girls to find and pillage his home.” 

 

Persephone arches her eyebrows. “If you say so,” she agrees slowly, probably thinking about how bad your panic attack got you merely an hour or two before. But she gives you your space, which you appreciate beyond comprehension. “Call me if you need anything.” 

 

You pat your back pocket for your phone, “Yup.” You kind of wish you could give her more than that, but there’s not much left of you to give at this. You follow Stephen out to through the city, looking around and trying to memorize the route in case you need to retreat quickly. “How much farther?” 

 

“Roughly two thousand and eight hundred miles.” Stephen says impatiently, bringing you to an abandoned alleyway. 

 

“What?” You suddenly become very aware of how this place is rundown and empty, no one who could hear you scream would be here in time to help.  _ I don’t need anyone to help me, _ you think angrily, clenching your hands into fists. 

 

“I live in New York City.” He says this like it’s just down the street, not on the other side of the goddamn country. 

 

“Oh. I see.” You say as though that makes perfect sense, your body getting ready for fight or flight. 

 

Stephen stands, one leg behind the other, arms outstretched as if reaching for something.  He flicks his hands and twists them, the air in front of him sputtering and fizzling like a Fourth of July sparkler, creating a hoop in front of you. You see space being bent and folded, bringing forth a piece of land miles upon miles away. He steps through the portal, and just like that he’s on the other side of the country. Okay, admittedly, not the weirdest thing you’ve seen in all your life.

 

You take a deep breath to steady your nerves and follow him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright-y! Now we're getting somewhere. 
> 
> Don't get me wrong, I love love love Doctor Strange, I had to buy it so I could watch it over and over again. But Stephen Strange is one of those characters that I think you can only enjoy from a distance. If I had to deal with his attitude constantly, I would probably end up punching him in the face, or something similarly violent. 
> 
> As always, your comments are greatly appreciated! Thanks for reading!


	5. Chapter 5

Loki stares at his outstretched arms. Oh, forgotten gods of the universe, he is losing it. He could have sworn just a few seconds ago he had held you, struggling and hissing like a wildcat. You were haggard and gaunt, thinner then when he saw you last. Dark circles under your eyes, the skin under your nose crusted with blood. Were you simply a vision his addled mind conjured up to cope with his new surroundings? He would think that his mind would imagine you as far healthier with his absence. When he saw you, you were empty inside. Eyes dull, puffy from long since dried tears, bedhead hair, skin tinted pink with fever and imprinted with wrinkled sheets.  

 

He had nightmares like this, though you were considerably more put together in the dreams. Cold indifference, not hotheaded anger. In his dreams you would tell him how much better you’re doing since he left. You stayed a respectful and horrible distance from him, hands folded and smiling like a sociopath. Sometimes he has other dreams where he watches you like a spector, seeing you go about your day. Those are his favorite, watching you interact with other people, sorting gemstones and herbs, the way you sometimes fall asleep during your studies, watching your eyes sparkle with information during your classes. 

 

As much as it hurts, he convinces himself that you’re better off without him. That the threat of Hela coming after you was too risky to stay, even after years he knows he would still be looking over his shoulder in fear. Hela is patient. Hela is everything that he used to be, maybe even worse. 

 

She has him scouring manuscripts of a time before Odin rose to power, searching for weapons and creatures filled with the dark energies of the divine creation, leftover primordial magic from the dawn of the universe. Everytime she decides he takes too long she gives him little reminders of how easily she can smite you. 

For example, one night he dreamed of you. You were wearing clothes you normally don’t, showing a little more skin than normal. Eyes smudged with a powder, making them jewels at the center of your face, your lips painted into a dark ruby. A beautiful flower crown adorned your head, blood red roses and dark blue lilies braided into your hair. You were in the middle of a field, surrounded by people all facing a stage near the border of a forest. Cheering, screaming, singing with joy. It was awhile since he dreamed of you like this, spinning around and laughing with a happiness barely familiar to him. When he awoke, he found the flower crown that had been in your hair laying on his desk above his work. The threat was horrifyingly clear. 

 

He kept the flower crown though. The flowers are actually fabric, staying the same luscious colors as when he first saw them entangled in your hair. Sometimes he thinks he can still smell you on them. 

 

Loki sits at his desk, trying to be comfortable on a chair that was clearly made for someone twice his height. His brothers love rubbing in how shorter he is compared to them.  _ The short bastard _ is their favorite nickname for him, the best thing those thick headed morons could come up with. He raises his hands to turn the page of a millenia old book procured by celestial-beings-know-how. Probably a lot of blood, because Loki knows that books like these are usually carefully guarded by some sort of organization wanting to keep its knowledge secret. He takes a minute to glance around the library Hela is slowly building for him, wondering how many lives had been ended shelf by shelf. He shivers, not from cold but from the terror gently squeezing in his chest. 

 

The door opens as if on cue. Hela steps through, her black and green armor glittering in what dim light he has.  _ Bitch stole my look, _ the leftover part of him snickers at the Midgardian reference whenever he sees her, though each time the voice gets fainter and the joke gets less funny. 

 

“Sister, darling, tell me how are you?” Loki stands from his chair, bowing low to the ground. “How is my family treating you?” 

 

“Your father is treating me  _ very _ well, brother.” Hela saunters over, her tread deathly and catlike. “In fact, I spent the loveliest time in his chambers just now. Leaves me very refreshed and relaxed.” 

 

Loki resists the urge to vomit at her insinuation. “I’m sure he showed you a lovely time.”

 

“Oh, he quite did.” Hela leans over the desk, observing his progress. “What have you been working towards, small brother? Our little team of mercenaries have been getting awfully restless as of late. Do tell if you have a job ready for them.” 

 

This is what he’s afraid of. Hela only ever comes see him if she feels he needs a good rattling. Loki has been doing his best to send them in circles, asking for other books rumored to have more information, quick runs to neighboring realms to investigate whispers of interdimensional wands or swords of worthiness. He has a good idea of where some legendary weapons are, but he’s done a beautiful job of dodging the location and sending the foot soldiers on what seems like promising paths only to turn into dead ends. He knows that soon enough, though, he’s going to have to give up one of the locations as soon as Hela is fed up with his antics. None of his notes betray him, all the relevant information is stored inside his mind. Currently he’s trying to figure out which weapon would be the least damning to give up. 

 

“I think I may,” Loki says slowly, summoning a good story to tell. He had a dream last night, a dream of when he was cruel and fearsome. Loki wants to know if it was simply a nightmare, or if this was truly a memory bleeding from his dead self. “What do you know of the Infinity Stones?” 

 

Hela’s eyes burn with terrifying excitement, “Exactly what they sound like, brother. Stones that contain power infinite to what our minds can process.” 

 

“Yes.” Loki ignores the sirens going off in his head that this was a terribly bad idea, and continues, “I believe someone called ‘The Collector’ is in possession of one.” More than one, but Loki keeps that to himself, “Do you-”

 

“I’m aware of who he is.” Hela is smiling, all teeth, no warmth. It’s equal parts disconcerting and strangely beautiful. She leaves him, cold sweat dripping down his back. He looks back down to his book, turning another brittle page. A corner of the paper snaps off at his touch,  a testimony of how he destroys all he touches.

 

“I’m sorry.” He mumbles to no one, or maybe to everyone that’s about to die. He thinks of his brother, acid burning in the back of his throat. Why did Thor think it was a good idea to ignore him? Especially with his sister running rampant. Especially since their father died. 

 

Loki glances out towards the balcony.  _ Enough self pity for the day, _ he decides, turning back to the book, now is the time for what he does best. Tricks and lies. Help Laufey and Hela build of an empire of deceit and watch the time for when it crumbles down into oblivion. He just has to figure out how to take their attention off of you. 

 

He stares down at the wand listed in the book. Perfect for someone small and quick who doesn’t get involved in a great deal of physical fighting. He cocks his head, a strand of raven hair slipping from his ear and into his eyes, but he doesn’t brush it away. Not powerful enough to warrant a search, but very good for someone who’s just starting to explore their powers. A small transportation spell for an inanimate object would be easy enough, even with all these preventive measures. If he could only get his slippery fingers onto it…

 

_________

 

Your coffee has refilled itself three times already. Any more espressos and you are fairly confident you’re going to ascend to a new plane of existence and fight the shadows you see in the corner of your eye. You stare at Stephen Strange- Doctor Strange, he insists you call him, expectantly. You’ve just spilled your entire life’s story to this man you’ve barely met, albei keeping out a few key details you don’t feel comfortable sharing. 

 

The keeps his hands folded in front of his face in a very Sherlock-like pose, and he’s staring at you. Not with disbelief per say, but with a close cousin of it. You expect him to start stroking his goatee and hum in a very mage-y way, but he just stays in his original position. 

 

“So… Um, I guess that’s it.” You forgot to tell him about your weird dream last night but decide after a brief internal debate not to. 

 

“I see.” He runs his hands over his face. “I see. Loki.” His voice is bitter, the name bringing up old memories of wars that could have been easily avoided. 

 

Your hand bounces with sudden weight as your mug is filled back up to the brim again. When did you drain it again? You can’t even remember. You try to take a modest sip. “Do you know him?” 

 

“I do indeed. My god, you have no idea the monster that stepped through your front door.” Doctor Strange stands, walking over to a circular shaped window facing the streets of New York City, watching the hustle and bustle of people who often have no idea their lives are in immediate danger. 

 

“He said he has no memory of his past life.” You repeat that detail that Doctor Strange seemingly keeps overlooking, “And he’s already done so much to help me. I thought I was insane, but it turns out my body was just overflowing with power it didn’t know how to deal with.” To drive your point further home, you let go of your cup and hold it suspended with you mind. 

 

Doctor Strange offers you a half hearted grunt. “Yes. I’m sure he told you how special you were, too.” 

 

You bristle, the cup falling out of your concentration and shattering on the floor. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

 

The shards of the mug glow green, all of them floating up as though falling in reverse, gently melting back into each other to reform what the pieces once were. The cup is before you, refilling to the brim with more coffee. You raise your hands and catch it in surprise. 

 

Doctor Strange lets out a frustrated sigh, and says in a tone that suggests that he’s trying really really hard not to be mean to you, “All you’re capable of now are cheap parlor tricks. Raw talent is one thing, crafting it into something coherent and usable is another thing. You have power, yes, but you haven’t even reached past the surface quite yet.” He’s pacing, his shadow casting onto you. “Saying that Loki is smart is an understatement. He would have seen you as raw clay to mold into what he saw fit.” 

 

“Loki had no choice in where he ended up. The fact he fell outside my home was a coincidence.” 

 

“Was it really? For your sake, I’ll agree with you there. But the fact is that he would have seen you and thought he hit the jackpot because there you were, untrained and filled to the brim with a power you couldn’t understand. A poor, injured dove he could twist into his own-”

 

“You have no idea,” Your voice almost breaks, “No idea what he helped me through.” 

 

Doctor Strange is silent, looking you over. He very wisely decides not to add anything else, but instead picks up a battered and old book. “Here.” He mutters briskly, “Information on your so called boyfriend.”

 

You drain the coffee again, slamming the cup down on his desk and accept the ancient text, “Even if he’s who you say he is, then do you think he should stay in the hands of whoever has him?” You don’t know who he would work with that would lead to worry about EArth’s future other than his family, but you take a gamble than Doctor Strange has at least a rudimentary understanding of inter-dimensional/galactic/whatever politics. 

 

Your gamble pays off, because you can see the visible change in his features. 

 

“No.” He agrees, opening a portal for you. You see it’s right in the middle of the shop after closing time, “We’ll continue this talk later, though.” 

 

You hesitate just for a second before stepping through the portal, wondering if it would be alright for you to give Doctor Strange just one punch between the eyes for acting like a total dick, but think better of it and walk through the hole, cutting through thousands of miles of USA in one single step. You straighten up and see one pissed off Kamaria giving you her Disappointed Mom Stare Extreme. 

  
_ I'm fucked, _ you think dimly. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoa! Where did the week go? Sorry for any errors, I tried to rush production of the chapter. I'm a little stuck on how to get this story rolling, but I'm slowly getting there! Thanks for all the encouragement.


	6. Chapter 6

You listen for a half hour to Kamaria’s lecture about wandering off without telling her, mumbling  _ I’m sorry _ every couple of minutes while she angrily explains the dangers of strange people. When she’s done, she crosses her arms and glares at you, “And I suppose you’ll be going there more now that you’re his student.”

 

You instantly regret blocking most of her out. “I- uh what?” 

 

She sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose, “You don’t go off without telling me. But since you  _ do _ need a teacher, I suppose that Stephen is kind of the better option of what I can provide.” She looks at you, her eyes sad but understanding, “Just promise you aren’t going to pull of any more stupid stunts like this, alright?” 

 

“Right! Yes, I promise. Thank you.” Persephone shoots you a weary look as she counts money, and you have an acute understanding that you barely escaped with your life. 

 

Kamaria keeps a close eye on you for the rest of the day. You try to take on extra chores to make up for it, sneezing for the rest of the night because you dusted places you don’t think have ever been dusted for the past century. 

 

You rub your watery and reddening eyes, looking out of your bedroom’s window. Muffled sounds of traffic bleed through the glass. The temperature is dropping with the sun, your breath fogging your view over. 

 

“Where are you?” You ask out loud, to no one. The window doesn’t answer. 

 

___________

 

The only thing that’s keeps you from breaking your nose is Doctor Strange’s sentient cloak taking pity on you. 

 

God, that’s a sentence you never thought would exist. But you don’t complain as the cloth gently pulls your body into a standing position, breaking your fall off the balcony barely an inch from the ground. Wouldn’t be the first time you brushed with death, but definitely is the one that produced the most adrenaline. You put your weight on your feet as the cloak floats back up to where its master is, you feel your limbs trembling with both exhaustion and aftertaste of fear. You glare back at Doctor Strange as he stares at you with visible disappointment. 

 

“What,” You take a deep, deep breath, “The  _ hell.” _

 

“I expected you to catch yourself.” Doctor Strange sighs, “I see we have a long way to go.” 

 

You resist the urge to stomp your foot with the petulant annoyance that’s beginning to build up in you. “No shit.” You mutter, stuffing your hands in your pockets to keep yourself from trying to punch him if he got near.

 

The rest of the week goes like this:

 

Wednesday is the only eight am class you have scheduled, so you have to wake up absurdly early. You shower, get dressed, grab something with copious amounts of preservatives and barely make it to your scheduled bus on time. The campus building for that class is almost all the way uphill from the shop, so you don’t care to walk all the way there. You take your advanced applied calculus and have lunch, then do homework for online government class. Then you go back to the shop and step through the wormhole to be bossed around by Doctor Strange. You sort his books while he watches with his refilling mug of earl grey tea. He proceeds to push you off the balcony again when you least expect it. His cape saves you again, but your arm has a nasty bruise. You get home around past midnight. 

 

Thursday is your sleep-in day, and sleep in you do. If your phone hadn’t gone off when it did, you would have missed your noon class. You tell your concerned professor that you had a bad fall (you did) when they ask you about your arm. You grab some dinner at a donar stand and are greeted another wormhole when you get back to the shop. You step through. You’re more careful to avoid the edge of the balcony, and don’t get pushed over. You help him label some of the magical weapons today. You jump out of the way about a second before an axe slices you clean in half. “Foresight is... acceptable,” Doctor Strange mutters more to himself than you, “Could be improved upon.”

 

Friday your bruised arm swells a bit to an ugly purple. Kamaria clucks her tongue and rubs it with an herbal salve. You help out in the shop, then go to your night class in an auditorium. No portal waits for you when you stumble back into the apartment around midnight. When you finally open the book Doctor Strange had given you, disappointment hits you. It’s all strange symbols which you don’t even know where to begin to learn. You throw yourself into bed dramatically, dreams of evergreen and winter.

 

Saturday you work in the shop until the afternoon, when the portal opens up in the basement. Kamaria goes with you and you can hear her yelling at Doctor Strange while you go through his books, trying to find a key on your own. Your efforts are of course futile, but if feels good to be trying to do something. Kamaria drags you back home with her and you call your grandparents, managing to keep the facade of being a normal college student.

 

Sunday Doctor Strange finally teaches you something of value: opening up your own portal. “They’re not called ‘portals’,” He sneers, then tells you their actual name which you promptly forget. He gives you a special ring that’s supposed to help you channel the power or something. You hold your arms out and spin them over and over again until you can’t even lift your cup to drink. Only a spark signifies that something is happening when you concentrate. 

 

Monday everything comes back full circle. You go to your classes, barely able to carry anything, and help out around the shop. And- oh right, mass tonight. You resist groaning in despair when Persephone asks you that question: “Are you coming with us?”

 

You don’t want to say no. But you are also like, really  _ really _ tired. 

 

You find yourself laying back down in the center of a circle. Persephone says the words of cleansing and power, ridding the world of spirits that may do you harm. You may be the center of attention, but you’re suddenly too exhausted to care. Your body is too tired to know the difference between a bed and the floor, and immediately starts powering down the second your head is flat on the ground. 

 

“Are you relaxed?” Persephone asks.

 

“Mmm.” Is your non committed response. You close your eyes and feel your body lighten a bit. 

 

“Good. Now let’s try getting you somewhere. Picture a place that you want to go to.”

 

You try to humor her. You imagine the room you dreamt up, the harsh metal lines and the cold marble floor. The cool evergreen smell of him. The sharp angles of his face. You see him clearly, more clearly than if you just think of him in passing. He’s a solid being, working hunched over his desk, furiously writing something. A startlingly familier crown of flowers is in front of him. You lurch forward, finding a small thread that binds him and pull. 

 

Before you realize a change is occuring, you’re standing behind him, bare feet on the hard stone. Almost as if sensing you, he stands and turns. He has a good couple of inches (at least) on you, you have to look up to make eye contact. He’s cleaner than when you saw him last, hair less greasy and neatly brushed. He smells like foreign essential oils, almost drowning out the smell that you’re so familiar with. He breathes slowly, looking at you with a mix of sadness and longing.

 

“So,” He murmurs, so close to your ear, “You’re back. Are you going to hit me again?”

 

“Don’t know.” You say. You find it a little tougher to concentrate, it felt like your brain was slowly being wadded with cloth when you were pulling on the string to bring yourself here, and now it’s harder to think. You cock your head, “You’re skinnier than I remember.” You hear Persephone talking to you, reminding you of what you’re doing. You suddenly have terrifying clarity of what you’re doing, that this… that he… is  _ real. _

 

“So are you.” He tries to be humorful, and notices that your skin bleaches several colors. “What’s wrong?” 

 

“You- I’m- I don’t?” Your persona of uncaring and aloof does a 180 on itself when you realize that all this is real. “Where are we?” 

 

Loki’s eyes cloud with confusion, “We’re on Jotunheim.” 

 

“I mean  _ where _ on Jotunheim?” You tap your foot with impatience, “Tell me now, I’m not sure how long I can last like this.” 

 

His face twists with suspicion, “Last like  _ what? _ Please tell me you aren’t actually here.” He places his hands on either side of your face, and though you aren’t high key on letting him touch you still you allow it to prove to you both that your apparition is physical. 

 

“Not exactly.” 

 

His eyes widen, the bottom of his mouth opens. “Please. Please tell me that you aren’t doing what I think you’re doing.” 

 

“Depends on what you’re thinking.” You push his hands away from your cheeks, gritting your teeth as hurt flashes through his eyes, “Why are you here?”

 

“Oh, oh no.” He places his face in his hands, “They’re going to find where you are, where you  _ really _ are if they sense your presence.”

 

“Who.” 

 

“My sister.” He peeks at you through his fingers, his eyes hollow with sleeplessness and red with degrading health. “My sister and father.”

 

“They’re here?” A million more questions shoot through your mind, you can barely verbalize any of them, “What are they doing? Why are you here? Are you working with them?” Your chest squeezes with pain, “Is that why you left?”

 

Loki raises his hand to cup your face again but thinks better of it, “Look around. Do I look like I’m working for them? Willingly, at least?” He shows you his wrists, which are cuffed with beautiful and intricate manacles. The skin around them is rubbed raw, oozing with puss and bleeding in some places. You suck in your breath, and before you can stop yourself your holding his wrists so you can get a better look. 

 

“Loki.” It’s the first time you acknowledge his name. Your dams are down and the emotions you’ve been hiding for the time you two spent apart comes rushing in. 

 

He doesn’t retract his hands from yours, his face is so much closer than before. You feel the breath on your neck when he leans down slightly. “I did this for you.” His voice is broken, raw. “I did this so they wouldn’t come after you.” 

 

“You shouldn’t have.” You could kiss his neck if you angled your head just slightly. “You shouldn’t have had to.” 

 

“I’m sorry.” He whispers, and that’s the last thing he says to you. Something sharp hits your nose like a thunderclap, bright and fresh smells overpowering everything. Your sight whites out, and suddenly you’re back in the basement surrounded by four concerned girls. Your head is laying on Persephone’s lap while Harmony is waving something sickly sweet under your nose. Smelling salts. Jezebelle has a damp rag that she’s using to dab at your head. 

 

You’re drenched in sweat, and you have little warning before a splitting headache hits you between your eyes, so bad that your entire body actually jerks. Something warm and sticky pools down your nose, your eyes swimming in red. 

 

“Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god.” Ophelia repeats under her breath, scrambling away for something. Jezebelle is murmuring something sweet, encouraging you to focus on the smelling salts. Persephone is gently brushing your hair away from your eyes.

 

“What the-” You try to say but can’t. Your left ear pops, flooding up with a liquid. You can’t hear anything from that side. Your vision fuzzes.

 

“You’re going to be okay.” Persephone says confidently as your vision snaps off, leaving everything muffled and black. You suddenly find it very hard to stay awake when most of your other senses are shut off. Sleep slams into you

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Sorry the updates are a little more spaced out... The second semester has started and I'm a little more stressed out than usual because I'm trying to transfer colleges AND score a spot on a study abroad program. Thank you all for your kind comments and patience with me!


	7. Chapter 7

You wake on a bed. Now, beds are normally the thing you wake up on, but this one is unfamiliar to you. A threadbare cloth is draped over your body as a blanket, a thin pillow cradling your pounding skull. You’re completely numb, you can’t feel your fingers. Your skin is nothing more than a regenerating latex covering your muscles, you can’t tell if you’re cold or hot, or if the blanket is scratchy or soft. The only thing you can smell is the faintest whiff of rust, and that’s the only indication that you are actually breathing. Everything you see is tinted red. 

 

Slowly, you manage to wiggle a finger, sensations slowly returning the more you concentrate. Sweat breaks your brow when you finally manage to move your entire arm, albeit slowly. The door creaks open, you feel a burst of fight or flight hit your muscles. A face peaks in, short, straight black hair and light brown skin. She’s wearing large glasses, her dark eyes dancing over you to check for something. The door opens further as she walks in, saying, “Oh, good, you’re up. Doctor Strange was kind of worried.” 

 

Doctor Strange being worried about  _ you _ is kind of laughable. More like he didn’t want to deal with a corpse, you bet silently. The woman is carrying a tray of tea, setting it down on the desk across from you. You don’t speak, you don’t even think you could if you tried since your throat feels like sandpaper, but she chatters away while she pours some tea into a cup and adds a few powders and herbs, “My name is Zelma. I help look after Strange’s library, sorting books and finding things and such.”

 

You manage to sit up, your back leaning against the wall. With shaking hands, you manage to to lift the teacup up to your lips on your own and take a few sips. Immediately warmth spreads throughout your body, the smell itself helping clear your mind. The liquid soothes your throat, you manage to drink down the entire thing while Zelma prepares a second cup. This one tastes different, the smell gross. You manage to choke it down as well. 

 

“This’ll help loosen your muscles, you should be walking around in just a minute.” Zelma explains while she sets the teacup back on the tray.

 

“W-” You take a shaky breath and try again, your voice gravelly and low, “What happened?” 

 

“You almost hemorrhaged. Strange asked me to give you this face.” She thinned her lips and glared daggers at you for a second, before returning to her normal smile.

 

“The face of bitter disappointment.” You sigh, rolling your eyes to the ceiling. You are no stranger to that face expression in the week that you’ve been training with him. 

 

Zelma snorts, “Trust me, I’ve been there sometimes. Oh, he also asked me to tell you that you are, and these are his words, not mine, a complete moron for trying to project yourself across the astral plane into another realm and if you die it’s because of your own stupidity.” 

 

You roll your eyes again, far enough that you can almost see the back of your head. “Glad to know he’s so concerned.” You’re voice almost gives out in the middle of the sentence, crackling like a radio with bad connection. 

 

Zelma shrugs, “He’s a practicer of tough love.” 

 

You can feel your motor skills slowly returning to you. You shift your toes, then try to bend your knees. “Where’s Kamaria?” 

 

“Downstairs. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Strange scared of someone before, but she’s been chewing him out for the past couple of hours now and he looks ready to throw himself into a black hole.” 

 

The image brings you a small amount of joy. “Nice.” 

 

Zelma helps you figure out how to walk, having you practice toddling from one side of the room to the other until you felt your bones return to a gelatin state. She helps you back into bed and promises to return tomorrow. You practically fall into a coma the moment your head hits the pillow. 

 

You sleep without dreams. When you wake up again, Persephone is the one making you tea. Her eyes are puffy with tears, she sniffs every couple of seconds. When she sees you awake, she starts apologizing in a shaky voice, “I’m so sorry, I didn’t realize that that would put a strain on your psyche.” 

 

You sit up by yourself. “It’s fine,” You reassure her, absolutely meaning it. “I want to thank you, actually.” 

 

She frowns, sniffing again while pouring hot water over the herb strainer, “What? Why?”

 

You settle back into the pillows, “Because now I know what to do.” 

 

You did not, in fact , know what to do. But you  _ did _ know something important: Loki never left you willingly. Now, you aren’t the person to wallow in melancholy when a boy leaves you, but the realization that he did not  _ want  _ to leave you burns in your chest, your stomach hot and unsure what to feel. You’re not happy that he’s gone, practically kidnapped and slaving away god knows where, but you’re also not curled up wondering where in your friendship he decided to run off. You’re elated and terrified. A cacophony of contradicting emotions swirl and whip in your mind, calming into a singular, clear purpose. _ Save him.  _

 

But that’s an entirely different daunting task, you don’t even know where to start. You sip the tea Persephone gives you obediently, your stomach grumbling for solid food. Someone knocks on the door before abruptly shoving himself in. It’s Doctor Strange. 

 

“Alright, thank you Persephone but I need you to leave the two of us alone now.” He says calmly, setting down a case and opening it. Persephone looks at you questioningly, so you give her a nod that you’re fine with this. She leaves, shooting a warning glare at Doctor Strange and leaving the door open a crack. 

 

“So,” He says, getting out a stethoscope, “Tell me how you’re feeling.” 

 

You stare at him in surprise. “What?”

 

“I said to tell me how you’re feeling.” He sets out several other normal doctor’s office checkup tools, that thing they use to test reflexes, that other thing they use to check your ears, eye flashlight, and a bunch of other things you don’t know the use of. He notices the aghast in your face and says in an exasperated tone, “Did you think I made you call me ‘doctor’ simply because I’m an egomaniac?”

 

“Yes.” You nod, because you wouldn’t put it past him. 

 

“I have five PhDs.” He states. You arch your eyebrows in mild disbelieve. “Medical related PhDs!” He insists. Your eyebrows go higher. “I’m licensed to practice medicine as well, so do you mind?” He gestures to your shirt, “I need to make sure your organs haven’t liquified.” 

 

You roll your eyebrows but let him give you a standard check up. “Anything unusual?” You ask sarcastically. 

 

“Your left eardrum has ruptured from pressure.” He says, “Which means that you strained yourself too hard, and are lucky your brain isn’t oozing from your facial orifices. Huge surprise you didn’t die, I can’t believe you astral project yourself to another  _ realm _ AND physically manifested your body when you’re psyche is already exhausted from the exercises I’ve been having you do.”

 

You stare dully at the wall. “That dangerous, huh?”

 

He stops his checkup to glare at you as an answer. So, fuck. There goes the idea to scout the premises using the astral projection method. “I don’t suppose I’ll be good enough to do that anytime soon.” You mutter.

 

“Pheidippides was a soldier in the Greek army,” Strange says instead, “And his people had just won against the Persians in the Battle of Marathon. So Pheidippides volunteers to run all the way back to the nearest city to announce their victory. Twenty five miles without stopping. He burst into the assembly, shouted ‘we won’, then promptly collapsed and died on the spot.” He sets all his tools back into the case, “Moral of the story is don’t be stupid, and know your limits.” 

 

“Okay.” You mumble, looking down.

_____________

 

You apologize to all your professors and show them an actual legal note from an actual legal doctor. “Aneurysm? Are you okay?” They all ask. You shrug and nod and smile. 

 

_ Know your limits, don’t be stupid. _ You tap the side of your pencil against the desk and try very hard to pay attention to the lecture. Loki is on an alien planet, but you can talk to him only while doing something that could very well kill you. So there goes that. You close your eyes and breath in, shaking yourself out of your stress and once again trying to pay attention. Nothing’s going to help right now. But you can barely keep your eyes focused on the board, your mind wandering off to the book Strange gave you last week. 

 

Instead of doing homework like you should, you open the ancient book for a second look. The language is just as foreign as ever, but something about it is oddly familiar. Like you know where it’s from. You what French is when you hear it and see it, and you know what Russian is when you hear it and see it, even if you speak exactly nothing in both of those languages you still know  _ of  _ them. Same goes for this, even though it looks like nothing more than the scribbles of a three year old, the back of your mind itches with recognition. 

 

You stand up, go downstairs to the second floor where Kamaria is going over tax forms. Fun. You sit down in front of her, “Do you.. Have a minute?” You show her the open book, “Do you know what this says?” 

 

Kamaria takes the book from you and gives it a look through. “This is an old, old language.” She muses, gently flipping a page yellow with age, “Older than a lot of religions. I know of it, yes, but I can’t translate it for you.” 

 

“Do you know someone who can?” You close the book and tuck it under your arm.

 

“Yes, Sephen does. He probably forgot you don’t read the language of the Elder Priests.” She half heartedly chuckles, “Ask him for a key next time you train with him.” 

 

“Alright, thanks.”

 

“Hey,” She places a hand on your arm, “Look, I know what you’re going through. And let me just say that whoever it is, I hope they’re worth it for you.” She gives you a smile, “And I hope you know when to stop. If they really love you, then they aren’t going to want you to hurt yourself like this for them, alright?” 

 

You stare at her for a second, then offer a sharp nod. You go back to your room and do your homework. 

___________

 

Good news: Doctor Strange gave you the translation key.

 

Bad News: There are three. First you have to translate the language to Sumerian. Then you have to translate it into Ye Olde English,  _ then,  _ if you’re feeling up to it, figure out how to push it into Modern English. 

 

“Why?” You ask, feeling frustration bubble through your body. 

 

“So be sure that you cover everything. The language of Sumerian is very specific, the key for older English covers everything better.” 

 

You’re 90% sure he’s bullshitting you for laughs, but you get to work anyway. You slave away for hours, barely getting past the first few sentences because you don’t know w h a t the fuck you’re doing with Sumerian. Before you step through the portal to go back home, Doctor Strange says in passing, “Or I could just give you a translation orb.” 

 

You feel the pencil you’re holding snap between your fingers. “A translation orb?” You keep your tone light, but the death threat there. 

 

“Well I just found it. I don’t really need it anymore because I’m fluent in all the languages necessary for magic, but I suppose you’ll benefit from it.” He hands it to you and you try your best not to rip his throat how. 

 

“And how would you use the translation orb?” You ask through gritted teeth.

 

“Hold it over the text and it should filter through your mind. Now if you excuse me, I have an appointment with a celestial wizard.” 

____________________

 

So yes, the translation orb works. In a very weird, very odd way. It seems to not just translate the words into English, but also tweaking everything so you can easily swallow it. 

 

_ So Jotunheim is known for housing some of the biggest pains in the collective universal ass, _ the orb translates,  _ a bunch of bag eggs there. So there was this dick, his name is Laufey. Bad news. Tried to conquer Earth and take its people as slaves, managed to get some of what are now the Nordic States before Odin, who was fresh out of his own ‘conquer everything phase’ played hero and knocked them down a notch. Laufey was understandably pissy about it, especially since Odin was only doing it to play off his own guilt of letting his daughter, Hela, commit genocide every other Thursday. Hela had been recently grounded for eternity. _

 

_ “Protect the innocents,” Odin proclaimed, “These people are weak and small and don’t know simple things like advanced trigonometry.”  _

 

_ “Bruh,” Laufey angrily snarled, “You got slaves for like eighty millenia. Why can’t we get this shithole planet?”  _

 

_ “Because I said so,” Odin responded, “And we have the magical rainbow teleporter. And a guy who sees everything.”  _

 

_ This entire conversation spanded about thirty years because instead of messaging each other with radios or some high tech equivalent these, these jokers only used space fairing messenger eagles, wanting to keep with ‘tradition’. Space fairing messenger eagles are slow and often understandably get lost in the vastness of space.  _

 

_ Odin tried to replaced Hela with a new heir, his newborn baby named Thor. Emphasis on ‘tried’.  _

 

_ Laufey decided to be a fuckboy and had dozens of children, though only the pure blooded Frost Giants received the status of heir. The others, nicknamed ‘the bastards’, were only glorified servants and foot soldiers of their father. _

 

_ Laufey kept on poking all of Odin’s buttons until Odin finally snapped and attacked Jotunheim with an apocalyptic power, smiting Laufey off his high horse and pillaging everything. During one of his attacks, Odin found an unusually small baby Jotun, presumably a bastard, the product of a Frost Giant raping a slave of an unknown species. Odin took pity on the tiny creature and brought it back with him to raise as his own, naming the infant Loki.  _

 

Loki. You put down the orb to pace around in your room. The information, if to be trusted, is far more than you could hope for. You’ve only read a few pages, and the book is huge. You spend all night reading it, reading about how he was raised, about the mischief he caused. It was all small and harmless in the beginning. You don’t see the monster that others do. The writer had an obvious bias against him,  _ this mother fucker switched the vinegar with mead. Who the hell does that, fucking disgusting. Only the first of the many transgressions against his people. _

 

Your alarm clock goes off. You glance at the time and realize that you’ve been spending the entire night not sleeping, and now have to go out to classes and pretend to be a functioning human being. Shit. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woo! To make up for the long space between the last two chapters, here. Another chapter. 
> 
> I'm sorry about the slow burn! I promise the ball gets rolling real soon.


	8. Chapter 8

Ilse runs her fingers through her long golden locks and watches you struggle not to fall asleep during your lecture. She’s wearing a feminine business suit, black dress jacket and flowing pants, no shirt. Her pale skin is flawless and milky, the males of this species take a minute to ogle at the exposed skin of her chest. It’s scandalous for this culture, but Ilse doesn’t understand the pull of their eyes. It’s just skin. Most of her breasts aren’t even showing, the jacket’s neckline only shows the valley between them.  _ Men. So stupid. _ Shrinking herself down to something less off putting is already hard enough, to expect her to not flaunt her body is another thing entirely.

 

She stands behind one of the doors, peering at the back of your head through the window. She sees you packing up your school books, stepping back so the normal flow of traffic wouldn’t be interrupted. Following you at a safe distance, she maps herself a trail between your school and home. An awfully suspicious car follows you as well, small red vehicle, pretty nondescript. Ilse would normally chalk it up to being a coincidence if she hasn’t seen it continuously throughout the day, keeping a safe distance behind you but always, always being there. _ So, _ Ilse muses,  _ Hela isn’t the only one keeping a close eye on you. _

 

All humans look the same to her, but even so, Ilse tries to slow down enough to get a good look at the person behind the wheel. She deaccelerates her brisk pace considerably, waiting for the car to park since you seemed to have arrived to your destination. Tannish skin, a head of closely clipped hair. She cheerfully taps on the window, giving the man one of her best disarming smiles and motions him to open the door. 

 

He rolls down the window instead. Well, Ilse can work with that, too. “Hi there!” She uses her most bubbly voice and leans forward slightly, giving him an easy vantage point to her chest, “I just have a few questions for you.” 

 

“I’m sorry, no.” The window rolls up again, slowly. Ilse impatiently stops it, the glass shattering from the opposing forces. 

 

“Actually, yes.” She says, her voice turning from cheerful to annoyed, “The girl you’re following, I want to know what  _ you _ know about her.”

 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

 

Ilse gives a huff of air, rolling her eyes, “My dear, this is only going to go downhill from here if you make things difficult for me.”

 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The man insists stubbornly. 

 

Ilse sighs sadly, “Hard way it is, then.” She casts glamour over them to make weaker minds feel the uncontrollable urge not to look in her direction, and calmly gets to work with a cheerful determination. He screams, he sobs, though it takes a long while to break him. Ilse is rather impressed, she tells him that she admires his stubbornness. “But, you know, this can end very easily if you  _ just _ tell me what I want to know. It’s that simple!” Her arms are covered in his blood, bits of his insides caked under her nails. It’s going to take a lot to clean those out, plenty of filing and clipping. And she just got a manicure, too. 

 

He mumbles something incoherently. Ilse suddenly remembers that humans need tongues to talk because telepathy isn’t a commonly practiced thing here. “Oh, silly me! I’m so sorry, let me drill into your mind real quick. Just think about the information, and project it towards me.” She places a sharp nail on his forehead and presses. Slowly, little things leak out and bleed into her mind. There’s a picture of you in a file, and the file is where this man is staying. That thought leads to the wall of his apartment, with the different photos and articles of Loki pinned there, alongside you, people she assumes are your family, and several other Asgardian scum. Interesting. 

 

Slowly the thoughts get fuzzy as though there’s static resistance frizzing the connection, one final picture of a glowing blue eagle before everything coming from him goes dark. Great, he’s dead. Ilse forgot how fragile these humans really are, she didn’t even do that much. Just a simple disembowelment! 

 

Thinking hard, Ilse begins to rummage through the car. She finds keys, a map, and a square device that these cuties call a ‘cell phone’. Super retro technology is really hard for her to understand, so she ignores it and takes the keys and map. She quickly casts a location spell with a bit of the man’s hair to find where he has been staying. Still covered in blood, she leaves the car and wanders around the city. 

 

Ah, the thread connecting her to the location spell ends in a more rundown than usual part of the city. Ilse walks right up to the room and crushes the door knob with her fingers, letting herself in and shutting the broken door best she could for some privacy. Well, she has to hand it to him, the man was clean. Not a speck of dust covers this apartment, though there is something questionable growing on the wall. He also hasn’t much to call his own in here, does he? The room is sparkly decorated with very little taste. The wall, however, is a super impressively covered in newspaper clippings and photographs. Huh.

Ilse looks closely, then notices a file on the kitchen counter. She wanders over and picks it up, reading the contents closely. Oh, this is perfect. She doesn’t even have to do any work now, all the information she needs about you is right here in her still blood stained hands. She glances at the logo sitting atop the first page. The same eagle, with the words S.H.I.E.L.D. stamped underneath them. 

 

Oh,  _ them. _ She knows about those people. They like to think they can keep all the big bad uglies away from their planet. Question is, though, why are they watching  _ you? _ Ilse doesn’t think you pose much of a threat, with the dark circles perpetually haunting your eyes, your skinny arms that can’t rip a log in half, and your dumb little legs that would never be able to outrun anything significant. So that begs the question of what kind of tricks you have up your sleeve that makes a special forces agency want to keep tabs on. 

 

She reads family affiliations. Mother, deceased. Father, divorced and remarried twice. Grandparents are your legal guardians. All fascinating information but nothing that Hela would find particularly relevant. Turning the pages, Ilse finally finds something that would be considered decently applicable.  _ Threat level. _ Excellent. 

 

__________________

 

Ilse sits on the bench in the pleasant sunlight and watches you leave what the locals call Starbucks, the coffee shop that appears to be multiplying all over the city like an infestation. She wonders why no one seems concerned about it, and chalks it up to just another thing about humankind that is beyond her reach of comprehension. Sort of like zodiac signs. For example, this printed paper that’s supposed to relate the news to her says that she’s going to meet someone very important today. Hm. How very ambiguous, one might even say a little  _ too _ ambiguous, as though someone is trying to through a pebble down into a pit and calling it a hole in one. Ridiculous. Stars don’t work like  _ that. _

 

Ilse folds the paper neatly and sets it on the bench just as you walk towards her, lazily standing to her full height as you pass. She quickly adjusts her coat to prepare for any kind of resistance you would give, though she’s not particularly worried. She calls out to you just as you walk up the steps of the wicca shop, taking a few steps forward. You halt, tense, and turn around slowly. Ilse knows that you already suspect something is wrong, with one hand on the door and the other fingering a chain of charms around your neck. “I’m not going to hurt you.” Ilse smiles, trying to put you at ease, “Yet.” 

 

You narrow your eyes at her. “Excuse me?” 

 

“The Goddess of Death, Queen Hela has sent me to get you.” Ilse says pleasantly, “So I’m afraid I’m going to have to take you back with me.” 

 

“Now?” You ask, glaring at her. Someone inside the shop senses your distress and is coming towards you. Oh, that won’t do. With the snap of her fingers, the door is locked shut. You jerk at it, trying to open it but to no avail. Poor baby, like the other man, you just don’t know when to stop. 

 

“Let’s not get all panicky, honey. I don’t want this to get all messy. I hate messes.” Ilse tries to make her voice soothing, “Fighting you will draw attention. Especially if I have to cut off your limbs. Trust me, the blood will get  _ everywhere _ . Come with me now, and I promise to let everyone within a twenty mile radius live.” 

 

You sense the power in her, a growing heat akin to an atomic bomb getting ready to fire. Wisely, you stop jiggling the door and take a step towards her, holding your backpack with a death grip. You take her hand.

 

“Oh, wise choice! I knew you’re smart. This way now, unless you want everyone to see me open a rift in space/time.” Ilse leads you to the alley, not exactly the most hidden spot but time is of the essence in this situation. Licking her fingers, she pulls out a small teleportation crystal leftover from some old stiffy celestial being that Laufey trapped and dismembered. Now those were fun times. “This makes first timers a little nauseous, so release all your breath, and when when get there don’t be afraid to sit and rub your temples a bit. Ready?” 

 

“No.” 

 

A bright flash swallows you both. And immediately after you feel the urge to vomit. You force yourself to stand tall with your chin up as you materialize inside a throne room. The walls are so tall you can barely see the ceiling, a thick fog swirling around the top. The walls are dark gray stone, seamless as though carved from a single block. The floor is black and flecked with other minerals, polished to shine like a mirror. You see every strand of hair in your reflection. Slowly, your eyes travel up to two meticulously carved thrones of ivory, two large and terrifying monarchs sitting atop them. 

 

“Welcome, young one.” The woman says. She’s leaning to the side, her head resting in her open palm. She’s casually spread on her throne like this is her time to relax. Dressed in black and green leather, her raven hair loose from any kind of ornamental headdress. The man she’s sitting next to is huge, taller than her and muscular. His skin is blue, dotted with designs of symmetry and chaos. It reminds you of Loki’s skin around his wounds, the way he hid what he was even to you for awhile. And you stare into this man’s eyes and you see bloody indifference, the eyes of someone who had his own son beat into the ground. 

 

You know who these two are before they introduce themselves. Laufey and Hela. Your veins go cold.

 

Jittering. Laughter. Hissing. You look around and see minions of every kind teetering at the sidelines. Blue giants glowering with their ruby eyes. Rotting corpses gnawing and shrieking, climbing the pillars to get a better look at you. Smaller creatures with their eyes downcast, adorned with glittering shackles and shaking with fear. You look back at the monarchs summon all of your courage, and say in a shaking voice, “What do you want from me?”

 

Hela grins, the kind of smile a crocodile makes before feasting on its prey, “Nothing much, dear, nothing much. Just your suffering.” 

 

The floor opens up beneath you. 

 

“Good luck!” Ilse calls as you fall, “You’ll probably survive longer than the others!” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, sorry about how long this took. Not only has school kicked me in the teeth, I really didn't know what to do here. I tried writing a few different ideas but I didn't like how any of them turned out. Call me a perfectionist or something. Oh, well. 
> 
> So yeah, I wanted to start going somewhere, so here we are! Things are going to get really dark, really fast, so if anyone doesn't want to read anything gory, this is your final warning!
> 
> Thank you to everyone who writes those encouraging comments! You guys rock!


	9. Chapter 9

You fall hard, barely having enough time to hastily throw together a safety spell you learned after Doctor Strange’s nasty habit of pushing you from high places. Even so, your vision splotches and blacks out. You taste blood, your body stinging and vibrating with pain from all sort of horrible injuries you’re sure you have.

 

You manage to get on your hands and knees, limbs trembling with fear. Snot and spit drip from your face as you pant hard, trying desperately to catch your breath. Shit.  _ Shit. _ It finally sinks it what had just happened. That you were basically kidnapped and thrown to god fucking knows  _ where, _ because fuck, FUCK, now you’re at the mercy of someone that you’re pretty sure commits genocide for breakfast. Your vision threatens to black out for a second time, your heart racing at a terrifying speed. Your body shakes, you suddenly feel like you can’t breath, you almost choke and scream but don’t have the air to. 

 

Deep breaths. Deep breaths. You count the small pebbles among the dust and sand in an attempt to clear your mind. Panicking isn’t going to help. You do the breathing exercise Doc Samson gave you to help shift your body from fight or flight; deep breath in, hold for five seconds, breathe out slowly. Repeat. Repeat. Your vision sharpens. You open your mind to sense danger, something is coming but is not yet here. You wipe the tears, blood, and spit from your face with your scarf, tying it around your waist in case you need it later.  

 

You stand, tall and straight. Your fists curls into your sides as you take a minute to look around. You’re in a room, rusty metal for the walls and the floor. You try to see where an opening could be, to maybe find a way to get back through it but the ceiling is seamless. Besides, you probably wouldn’t want to go back up to the court of insanity and nightmares. In the center of the room, there’s a metalic medical bed that’s washed with reds, blood mixing with rust. Some if it actually looks  _ fresh. _ You feel a small bit of sickness, your stomach churning with the desire to puke. The light above you is an old fashioned lantern with an actual candle, casting harsh shadows throughout the room. You see your backpack- oh thank the  _ goddess, _ on the floor near the a door. You open it to check for the contents, numb with relief that everything seems to be accounted for. 

 

A loud screech nearly sends your soul to the astral plane. Your head snaps up so fast your spine almost breaks. The door is opening. You stand, shouldering your backpack securely, holding your breath for any kind of horror that would bleed through. Nothing happens, so you tentatively sneak over to the doorframe, looking widely around for anything that could jump out at you. The room is the same as the one you just came from, but bare. No entrail crusted medical tables. A note written in something that looks suspiciously akin to blood stains the wall opposite of you.

 

_ There is a creature that dwells within these walls  _

_ Sightless, only able to listen for its prey  _

_ The only thing the wretch enjoys more than the blood of its victims _

_ Is the hunt to find them _

_ Run, rabbit, run _ __  
  


There’s a long hallway across the room, and slowly, steadily, you hear the grating sound of metal on metal getting closer and closer. All the chill you’ve managed to maintain instantly takes flight and leaves your body. You wrack your brain, looking over the message again. Sightless, that’s a good place to start. Has to listen to its prey. Also a good thing, that means that you just have to stay extremely quiet. Unless he has super hearing, in which case you are so fucked. 

 

The grating is closer now, the hallway is far too thin to avoid anything. You close your mouth and test the creakiness of the floor. Nothing so far, you’re glad that it’s metal and not centuries old wood. You stand against the wall by the door, beyond an arm’s reach in case it tries to reach out and snatch you. Closer. Closer. Closer.

 

_ Here. _ You suck in your breath, holding it as a maggot infested, misshapen collective of lumps lumbers with surprising grace into the room. It lurches forward, sniffing and snorting with its purplish and warted snout, some sort of tentacles grasping the air for scent. It spins, and you see where the eyes must have been, which are now a cluster of scares as though someone lashed at its face. It has three arms. Two smaller ones to the left, sprouting from the same socket and some sort of green tinted sore crawling with worms in the lower one. The third arm to its right is huge and burly, dragging with it an axe that was making the metallic grating nose. The axe itself is large and chipped, almost too big for the creature itself. Actually, you think you’re taller than it, but that makes it no less terrifying. Tusks grow crookedly from its wobbly lips that’s opening and closing, layers of sharp and dull teeth lining the inside of its mouth down to its throat. 

 

You wait until its a modest distance from the entrance, then begin to gradually creep out into the hallway. Slow and steady. No sudden movements. You can hear it grunting and hissing, its maw snapping with a barbed tongue lapping against the wall where you know the bloody message is. You look over to the end of the hallway, the entrance to another room open, warm light from another candle lantern bathing your face with its blessed light. 

 

Your shoe gets caught in something sticky. You stumble forward, your feet making a horrifying squeaking noise against the floor. Everything stops. The creature’s face snaps towards you so fast you can hear it crack, a gutteral sound gurgling from inside its stomach. It wretches, hissing, its teeth scraping and clicking against each other as it starts running towards you. 

 

You bolt, your legs suddenly moving at a rate you never thought possible, lungs expanding and bursting oxygen into your bloodstream. The scraping follows you like a terrible phantom, you feel something moast and slimy on your leg. You gasp and choke as you make it to the other room, looking wildly for an exit. Loud screeching and thumping hits your ears, you turn to see the door behind you has closed, thus locking that thing out. 

 

You choke and splutter, trying desperately to catch your breath and try to calm down enough to think clearly. Run over what you know. Assimilate information, figure out how to apply it practically. So- so, this thing can’t hear you breathing when you’re being careful, that’s good, that’s um, probably great. Tears smart your eyes as you try to focus. Something that sounds like a fog horn startles you out of your thoughts. 

 

You look up and see an old fashioned record player, the kind with the strange horn shaped speaker. It sits on a polished wooden table, laughably out of place in this hellish place. The horn sound stopped, followed by a voice that cheerfully says, “Salutations, contestant!!! So you- you- you survived the very first e- encounter!” The voice is gravelly and cutting out every few seconds, skipping and repeating like the vinyl is corrupted, or whatever the equivalent of a hard copy corruption is. “It’s actually not that impressive, over 80% of contestants do! So you a- are- are- you are going to have to try harder to impress our viewers!” 

 

Viewers? You look around for cameras. Nothing.  _ Though, _ as you close your mind and open it to search for watchers, you do actually feel that familiar warning shiver in your spine. Okay, so they’re watching you. The court of Hela and Laufey, you assume. The sound of the creature banging to get in hasn’t ceased.

 

The voice continues, “Now you’re going to have- going to have- going- to be very careful, dear contestant! Look around, look around. Glass everywhere! Four different doors to choose from! You’re going to have to travel along the glass as quietly as possible to the door that’s randomly chosen to open. The door that blocks  _ y- y- you _ from  _ it _ will open in five, four, three,”

 

You look around at the glass bottles that litter the floor. You hastily bend over to grab a handful and kick away the rest surrounding you as a safety cushion. Deep breath.

 

“Two, one, good luck!” The door slides up, revealing the creature. It screams, lumbering in, snorting, growling, looking desperately for food. You can feel its hunger inside, churning and screaming for flesh. It passes so closely to you, you bite your tongue down so hard you almost taste blood to keep still. The smell of infection and rot follows that thing wherever it moves. Slowly, the door across from you opens your escape route, but the creature hears its shrieking hinges and shortles, limping barefoot towards it. It’s feet are caked with blood and glass, calluses and pussing sores misshaping its feet to fleshy blocks. 

 

You open your fist, your palm bloody where the glass opened parts of your flesh when you gripped it tight. Too small to use as a weapon, now that you have a better chance to assess the creature.  _ But,  _ you think, staring at the pieces in your hand. You pick up one of the pieces with your other hand, and toss it to the corner furthest from both you and the door. It makes a quiet  _ plink _ as it hits the floor and surrounding broken bottles. 

 

It snorts, facing the place where you tossed the piece. You toss another one. Quicker than you would have liked, it leaps forwards and grabs for the empty space, swinging the axe and gutturally screaming. The creature it making a bigger ruckus than what you would make while escaping, at least, you hope. You quickly dance across the spaces that have the least amount of glass and stop in the doorway as it realizes that it’s been tricked. You open your palm and throw the rest of the glass away from it, and it falls for that trick again, lumbering towards the noise. 

 

You move as quietly as possible, holding the straps of your backpack taunt to minimize noise from the fabric. The hallway is nearly pitch black as you leave the light of the last room. Up ahead, another glow is bleeding through the void, though this isn’t the organic feel of candlelight, it’s something artificial. The creature much have realized what you did, because now you can hear it following you. Your breath hitches, panic building in your throat once again. You start running towards the light, noises be damned. Oh, it is mad  _ now. _ It knows you’re here, you can hear its galloping speeding up in an attempt to catch you before the next room.

 

You make it with more leeway than the last time, the door closing behind you firmly. You feel less stressed this time round, so before this room’s phonograph starts, you look around. Beer bottles on the floor, more whole than the last room. You look at the wall, and see a person pinned there, their hands and legs locked in a wooden planks, the wooden planks connected to wires and pulleys. With a chilling realization, you know you’ve seen something like this. A medieval torture device. This person was going to be ripped in half. 

 

“Hello, cont- constant! Glad to see you’re still alive and alive and alive and kicking! This is a slave our lovely warriors of Jotunheim have picked up in one of their raides. Unfortunately, it looks like they are about to die! But that m-may not be the case. You see y- y- you see, the release is right there on wall, do- do you- do you see? You just have to pull it. All good things ha- have- a cost, though! The upkeep in here, I’m sure you’ve noticed, is terrible! Everything is rusted and old. The release pulley is really, really hard to p- pu- pull. And it makes this atrocious noise! The creature absolutely  _ hates _ it.” 

 

Your escape door opens. “Because our overlords like to think themselves merciful, you can walk away. But in exactly sixty seconds, this slave will die, whether it’s by this  _ beautiful _ device found on Midgard a long time ago,” A loud click, the slave chokes back a sob as the wood moves apart a couple of inches. “Or by the creature that follows the cries of pain. You know, the creature would probably be a quicker death if you ask me. That is, if it’s hungry enough.” Laughter, then the laughter gets caught on a loop.

 

 You bolt to the release pulley and yank, but there’s no give. You try again, nothing. You grit your teeth and you look at this pale skinned being with skin almost translucent. Someone’s child. Someone’s spouse, maybe. Someone’s parent. The machine clicks again, you hear a crack from the creature bones like it’s nothing more than a chiropractic appointment. You try again. 

 

“Uh-uh-uh-uh- ooooooh, you’re still here? Well, the beast will be here also! In ten, nine, eight,”

 

Your eyes fall on a beer bottle on the floor. 

 

“Six, five, four,”

 

You pick it up, check the edges. Sharp. You set your backpack on the floor. 

 

“Three, two, one!” The door opens. It shoves its way in, chortling, it’s mouth gnashing. You stay still. It spins around in the room, you look at the slave and make a  _ sh, _ motion with your index finger. The machine clicks again. Tears slip from their face. You look over at the creature, who has its back to you. God and Goddess, let this work.  _ Please. _

 

You jump onto its back, wrapping your around its neck and stabbing. Again, again, again,  _ again, again, again. _ The bottle rips through his skin, the wet sound of muscles and skin tearing filling the room as the creature  _ sobs _ , trying to buck you off. You loop your other arm underneath it’s two small arms and dig your nails into it for better grip. Everyone is screaming, the smell of fresh, rotten blood overpowers your other senses.

 

It stops struggling. Your hand is cut, chunks of the bottle have broken off and lodged in its skin. You let it fall forward as the stiffness in it’s muscles cease, trying to wipe the blood off your shaking hands with your scarf. Another click. The slave starts crying. 

 

You spin around and reach up for the pulley.  _ Don’t do it, _ something murmurs in your mind,  _ don’t do it. _ But you look at their face and see their tears, yanking on the handle as hard as you can. The phonograph voice wasn’t lying, the sound the rusted metal made was ungodly. But that sound is nothing, absolutely nothing compared to the sound of skin ripping as the slave gets pulled in half faster than you could process. 

 

You stare at where the slave was, just a second ago, blood pouring out of their opposite ends. Slowly, you look up to the torso, see the intestines dangling from the open half, the their face twisted in terror. Your hand are still smeared with blood from the creature, but you raise them to cover your mouth anyway. “No.” 

 

Your entire body starts quaking, as you whisper, “No.” Then louder, “No, no, no, NO, NO, NO NO NO  _  NO NO NO NO!”   _ You’re screaming, tears pouring down your cheeks, “That- that was supposed,” You can barely breathe, “fucking save them. Fucking save them!” 

 

“Congratulations, contestant! You have survived.” 

 

Shaking with a thousand emotions, you turn to the door. It’s the court again, the jittering horrors shrieking with laughter over your mournful dread. You see Hela and Laufey hiding smiles, and your vision goes red. You wipe your tears away with your scarf, and throw the bloodied cloth on the ground, being sure to grab your backpack before you leave. Trying to keep your head tall, you can barely walk straight because you see nothing but rage, you’re a storm, “You fucking- goddamn, you  _ fucking goddamn- _ ”

 

“Laufey, she appears to have lost the ability to speak.” Hela sounds endlessly amused.

 

“So she has.” He muses, nodding at one of the guards. “You know where to take her. Dump her limp body in his room and let him handle her tantruming.” 

 

They haul you away, kicking and screaming. You’re blind to anything but the anger pumping into your veins, but you can’t even form the words to tell the guards that they should shove their swords up their asses. One has no trouble grabbing you by the arm and dragging you when you try the ‘go limp’ tactic, laying on the floor of the hall and not moving. Your teeth chatter with chill as you get dragged across the freezing stone floor, then you manage to get up and walk down the stairs instead of getting a concussion. 

 

You try to memorize the path you take, but find you’re mind is too preoccupied with playing what just happened with the slave over and over in your mind. You feel tears again, but you’re too dehydrated to allow them to fall. Your throat is dry and scratchy. You barely notice when you stop, the guards unlocking the door and tossing you in without a second thought. 

 

Your skin smarts as it hits the cold stone, you let yourself have a second to breath before opening your eyes, and seeing Loki cradling your body with terrified concern.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, yeah. I think I managed to get the ball rolling, sorry about the super slow beginning burn! My writer's block is temporarily solved, thank goodness. I think I know how to handle the continuation of the story now.


	10. Chapter 10

He’s tracing the path of blood along your lips.

 

“I’m sorry.” His voice is ragged, exhaustion in his words. “This is my fault, I’m so sorry.” 

 

You’re still shaking, tears streaming down your cheeks. “I killed someone.” You bawl, uncontrollable sobs shaking your body now that you’re alone with someone you trust, “I killed that innocent person. I killed them, Loki. I  _ killed someone-  _ oh god, oh god, I-” You wretch, your stomach contorting horribly. Loki helps you lean over, brushing a stray hair from your face as you vomit onto the floor. Your body spasms, sweat sheening on your face. You feel boiling hot and freezing cold at the same time. You go limp, letting Loki pull the backpack from your body and tossing it onto the bed, alleviating only some of the weight that’s crushing you. 

 

“It wasn’t your fault.” He whispers in your ear, helping you stand. “It wasn’t your fault.” 

 

_ It was it was it was it was. _ “I thought- they said-” 

 

“My sister is a liar, one of her favorite games it to twist reality.” He says simply, “Come. Let’s bathe you.” He takes no heed to the blood and grit and glass that covers you from head to toe, holding you tightly to his body. His arms are already slick with a mixture of fluids, but he picks you up effortlessly into the bridal carry, your face in your hands as you try desperately to fight off the nausea building inside. The faint drag of metal on stone almost sends your body into a full on panic attack, you have to check to make sure it’s just the chain on Loki’s ankle making that noise and not  _ it. _

 

The bath is open, no doors and is seemingly just another part of the room. You hear a faint rushing noise, like the bubbling of a brook, and you look down to see what you can only describe as a lazy river inside this whole other area you never noticed during your out of body experiences. The floor is still black, but less shiny and more textured for grip when walking through the pool. The rocks that line the stream are probably from the same kind of stone as the floor, just in its natural form, a dark, almost black color. You don’t pay attention to much else as Loki sits you on a large bench, kneeling in front of you. 

 

 He hesitates after making a move to undress you, looking up into your eyes. “May I?” His voice low, tone cautious and beautifully caring. You nod fervently, at this mental state you’re in you would let him do anything to you and not care very much. He knows this. He wants you to be aware once you regain a part of your sanity that he would never do anything without your express permission. Empathy, sorrow, and brief flicks of terror resonate in those eyes that only glance down from yours for the occasional snag of confusing Midgardian buttons. Any form of physical lust is absent as he helps you pull off your shirt, revealing skin. He removes your shoes, then your socks, and takes an extra minute to rub your sore and blistered feet. He doesn’t kiss you as he tugs down your pants or removes your underwear. You feel warmth, you suddenly realize that he’s lowering you into the water of the bath. You're sitting, the water falling just short of your breasts. 

 

“There we go,” He coos softly, tilting your hair back and letting the gently natural current rinse it, “Let’s get you clean.” 

 

The source of the water is a fountain near the far wall, and you can see several small holes in the wall and floor closer to where you are, draining and keeping the water fresh and clean. Loki murmurs something about this being a natural hot spring, something that the slaves and halfbreeds need to survive the harsh cold that the full blooded Jotuns have no qualms with. You don’t pretend to be enthralled, staring at the water slipping through your fingers and remembering how the blood felt on the creature as you tore its veins open. 

 

You only vaguely realize the reason you haven’t floated away in the current is that Loki is in there with you, holding you in place. Legs tangle with your own, you sit facing towards a large, curved window surrounded by metal while Loki faces you, his features screwed up in concentration as he picks, picks, picks the glass out of your open palm. He talks, not letting silence deafen your ears for a second. His silver tongue tells you of his time here, how he’s begged, borrowed, and stolen favors to keep you safe, how even though it was all in vain he would do it again. He tells you of all the books in his library, how many magic manuals there are and how he can barely wait to teach you a thing or two. You wince as he digs out a particularly stuck shard, setting it aside and checking once more to see he’s gotten everything. He dunks your hand underwater, the pain bringing you suddenly and viciously back to the present. 

 

“You’re doing good, let’s get your skin scrubbed now, shall we?” His touching is intimate, yet lacking sexuality. It’s somehow medical, but not devoid of warmth. You suddenly are aware of how naked the two of you are together, and how this may be the most he’s seen of you. You don’t pull away or protest, because suddenly something between your legs sparks and you want more of what he’s doing, in a different, less innocent area. You bite your lip and remain silent. 

 

Something rough and slippery is touching your arm, you look and see Loki rubbing the grime away with some sort of spongy thing, the grit and dried blood slipping away with the current. He dabs gently at your other wounds, raw, jagged cuts, and deeply mottled bruises. You hiss and whimper, trying so hard not to let any weakness bleed through but tears have started to form in your eyes and the added humidity makes them easier to slip out. Loki slips one of your legs out from the crook of his knee and raises it from the water, giving it the same treatment as your arms. His fingers don’t go further than your lower thigh,  no matter how hard you wish they would. You didn’t notice when he fell silent, but suddenly it’s quiet and it feels like the room is so much warmer than it was before. You wonder if you have a fever.

 

He’s done so much sooner than you would have liked, the two of you sitting in the moving water, his face almost close to your but not quite, your bare bodies touching. His hair is damp and clinging to his skin, his lips almost fuller than usual and so, so kissable. He whispers your name, his voice suddenly broken and tired, his terror for you here burning through his skin. You lean in and brush your lips against his, determined not to let this situation or chance be lost. 

 

It’s like your first kiss all over, though the tingling in your toes is gone. But also, your toes are kind of numb so you may never get feeling in them returned. His lips are so soft and yielding, his deft fingers finding your bare waist and touching, his legs wrapping around yours, the hot chain brushing against your body. He pulls you closer to him, his tongue sweeping out for you to take if you want it. Just when you think you are finally going to be with him, he jerks back suddenly, the kiss ending in one of the most obscene, wet sounds you have ever heard in person. 

 

“ _ Wait, _ ” He pulls back, shaking his head, “You aren’t well.” Tiny droplets from his hair peck against your skin. 

 

You don’t want to whine, you don’t even want to sound desperate, so you manage a brusk “I’m fine.”

 

“You’re  _ not _ fine,” He admonishes gently, “You could barely even remember your own name a few moments ago. I don’t wish for-” He takes a deep, shaky breath, and tries again, “I will not take advantage of you.” 

 

“I want this.” You whisper, taking his hand and placing it on where your heart is, just above your breast. His breath hitches, you see a spark of heat in his eyes and you know it’s not going to be a long argument before you both get what you want. “ _ Loki, _ ” You see how much he loves hearing you saying his name like that, a breathy whine. You stare into his eyes, “I need you to help me forget today, just for tonight. Please. I’m  _ begging you. _ ”

 

His breath hitches. “Begging me.” You see something ancient inside him blossom from a long dead part of his soul. “I- I don’t want you to feel that I’m being- I don’t feel like I should, not while you’re-”

 

You have long since let go of his hand, but he kept it there, fingers so close to your nipple his thumb would just need to flick down.  “I mean, if you don’t want to…” Your words trail off, you don’t want to sound bitter. Does he not find you pretty enough? He’s trembling, and you dare to peak down to see that his cock most certainly wants with you. It’s half hard, as Loki fights lust with only pure will. 

 

“My dearest, my love.” He leans in and kisses the spot between your neck and earlobe, “You will have plenty of time to decide if you truly want me or not. Tonight you will sleep, and tomorrow, if you still wish to have me, I will submit to your every desire.” 

 

Electricity sparks where his mouth touched your skin. Numbly, you nod. He stands, reaching over and grabbing a large, fluffy towel and motions for you to rise. He wraps the towel around you and helps you out of the bath, quickly wrapping a towel around his waist before escorting you towards the bed. The bed is just as ludicrously large as you remember, and twice as fluffy as it looks. Loki takes care to pat you down, fondling your breasts in the guise of drying. He gives you a wink to show he won’t forget his promise and kneels to dry your lower half. His mouth is so, so close to your skin, you feel his warm breath as he takes extra,  _ extra _ care to rub your thighs with the towel. You stand naked above him, his waist unfairly protected, so you lift a foot to kick away where to end of the towel was tucked and watch it fall to the ground. 

 

You lift an eyebrow at him, daring him to keep his original deal. Either he has the most self control of any man you’ve met, or he’s a masochist that thrives on inflicted pain because he doesn’t lift you up and take you then and there. Once he’s satisfied that you’re nice and dry, he wraps you back up in  _ his _ towel, you note, the warm smell of clean male clinging to the material. He doesn’t try to cover up, standing before you, bare and chained, looking at you like you’re a goddess heralding for his salvation. 

 

“Let me find you something to wear.” He says, pushing your backpack under the bed. You climb up on the mountain of white cotton or whatever is the Jotun cotton equivalent and curl up, blissfully warm from the bath and eyelids tired. Loki comes back a moment later, carrying a goblet of what you assume is wine and one of his green tunics, which fits you like a boxy dress. You slip on the shirt, rolling up the sleeves and accepting the goblet as well. 

 

“I put something in it to help you sleep,” Loki states before you take your first sip. You drink the spicy, sweet liquid greedily, feeling suddenly like you hit a wall and all you want to do is not move. Your eyes blink rapidly when you finish the wine, splotches appearing as you lay down and rest dreamlessly. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello. Me again. How are all of you on this fine day? No fucking yet, but please bear with me I will most certainly deliver. Thank you all for your kudos and comments!


	11. Chapter 11

As quickly as you conked out, you wake up. There’s nothing like waking up, toasty warm, rolled into a fluffy blanket burrito. Slowly, groggily, you manage to wriggle out of your safe haven and untangle yourself from the sheets. Outside the blankets is horribly frigid, an unforgiving reminder of where you are and what you’ve been through. The memory of intestines dangling from the limp torso of the slave causes you to wretch, but you don’t vomit anything. There’s nothing inside of you to throw up. The nausea subsides and gives way to hunger, you try to remember the last thing you ate or drank. Starbucks, something horribly sugary and not nutritious at all. 

 

“Good morning.” Loki is already up and working on something over the desk. A plate of food is set in front of him, entirely untouched. Whatever it is smells absolutely wonderful, your mouth waters as the scent hits your nostrils. He gestures to the platter when he sees your lusty gaze, “Please eat.” 

 

You slide down the bed, landing on the floor. The marble chills your feet, but you barely have the emotional stability to care quite yet. The silky green tunic he gave you goes just past your knees, the material thin but warm. You see your reflection in the polished floor and take note of how beautifully the material sits on your body, the way it doesn’t turn you into a shapeless box but slinks down your curves, showing off every nook and flaw you may have. You have no pads on your breasts to hide how cold you feel, your nipples are peaking through the fabric. 

 

“Morning.” You mumble to him, sitting yourself cross legged on the table because there’s only one chair in the room and that chair is occupied. The tunic falls between your legs so you’re not flashing him, but you’re still closer and more intimate than the two of you had ever been previously. Except for last night's bath, the memory of which is hazy at best for you.

 

“I hope you slept well?” He asks, tapping a quill onto the book he’s reading. It looks newer than the book Doctor Strange gave you, but not by much. His hair is hastily pulled back, several strands escaping the small strand of leather he knotted to keep them in place. 

 

“Better than usual. What exactly was in that wine?” You grab a piece of something purple and spongy, too damp to be considered bread. You take a bite. It’s sweet and chewy.

 

“Mild sedative.” Loki glances down at the book he is reading then back at you. HIs eyes fall on your stomach, where your tattoo is. You suddenly remember that seeing you naked yesterday would also mean seeing  _ that. _

 

Before you can say anything to try to break the awkwardness but ultimately burying yourself further, the door bursts open. A tall, slim, unfamiliar woman walks in, her hair past her hips and white as snow. She’s at least two feet taller than Loki, her skin blue and her eyes blood red. She’s wearing something that basically makes you think of Inuit and belly dancing, two things that you would have never thought possible to mix. Her stomach is bare, her breasts almost hanging out of the strip of fabric that covers them, and her long legs peeking out from the animal skin strips she uses as an open skirt. 

 

“Oh my goodness, am I glad to see you alive.” She saunters over to you, grabbing a fruit off of Loki’s platter and eating it, “A lot of people don’t survive that first one. But I  _ knew _ you were resourceful. And look at that, you totally walked out of there in a single piece.” 

 

You look over to Loki, confused. Her voice sounds like someone you heard before, but you can’t place where. The woman boops you on the nose, “Silly, you don’t recognize me, do you? I’m Ilse, remember? I found you on Midgard.” 

 

You inwardly groan. “My kidnapper. Of course. Hello.” 

 

“Aww, you don’t have to sound so excited. Hela wants you back in the ring, and she sent me to fetch you.” 

 

Loki stands up at that, “No. She just got back, she needs some rest and clothes.” 

 

“She had the entire half night to sleep, sweet boy. And consider the clothes thing already taken care of. I get to dress her up, like a doll!” She turns and grins at you, her canine teeth slightly sharper than a normal human’s. You are anything but reassured. 

 

Loki’s mouth presses into a thin line, the gears in his mind turning. “I would like to accompany you, then.” 

 

Ilse’s smile turns darker, “Would you now? That most certainly could be arranged. You know,” She reaches over to grab another piece of fruit from the tray, “Pink on you is so unbecoming, small one. Why don’t you let your colors out and I’ll take you both down to the fitting room?” 

 

His eyes flicker over to you. You can see the spark of fear, the terror of accepting himself as one of them. You know he looks like them, you’ve known since you helped him piece together to raw skin on his back. You also know he hates that part of himself. 

 

“It’s fine.” You’ve been saying that a lot lately, but this time you almost mean it. 

 

He closes his eyes, his skin melting from a gaunt, pale shade of ivory to a dusty cerulean. You hold your breath when his eyes open, just as red as Ilse’s and soulful as his green shade. Markings twist on his flesh, slightly paler blue geometrical designs twist and curve around his body. Your gaze stays on him, you almost forget to breathe at the site of his ethereal beauty. Yes, he was handsome before, and you had a vague idea of what he was (or wasn’t, more like), but it finally hits you that Loki  _ is not human. _

 

“Good boy.” Ilse purrs, reaching over a long, perfectly manicured white claw and tilting his head up to meet her eyes. “Blue is so much better fitting for you. I suppose you can, how do humans put it? ‘Tag along’.” She turns to you, and it could be your imagination, but you think you can make out flecks of crusty red along her neck. “Come along, you. We need to get some armor to protect your squishy insides for the next game.” 

 

Loki hands you your coat from under the desk and stands, the chain along his ankle dragging mercilessly as he follows Ilse and you out. Ilse barely has to gesture towards him once the three of you get to the door before the guards are unbuckling his many chains. First the one around his neck. Then the ones around his arms are removed, funny, you don’t remember seeing those last night. And finally, the one around his ankle comes off. 

 

“Come along, dears.” Ilse starts walking down the hall, knowing that neither you nor Loki will have any choice but to follow. You want desperately to cling to his hand, but know that prying eyes would see that as an easily exploitable weakness. Wrapping your coat as tightly as possible around your body, you keep your head high, shoulders back, eyes straight, and walk like you’re off to commit mass genocide. In other words, with a hellishly god-like amount of confidence. 

 

 Ilse leads you and Loki through the maze of high spiraled hallways dotted with chandeliers. Somehow the architects managed to make even the candles look malicious. Besides candles, there is some other harsh, shadowy light that you can’t detect the source of, casting ugly and terrible shadows in every corner of the walls. Ilse leads you into an open room, surrounded by mirrors that look tinted blue in the surrounding atmosphere. Your toes are numb by the time you get settled on a circular platform, the warmth pulsating under the stony surface almost giving you a shock. 

 

Three people dressed in rags come from seemingly nowhere. Standing under the blue hazy light, the surroundings beyond the mirrors that circle you are a black void of unknown. One of them has blue skin, a darker shade than the frost giants. She- you think they're a she, has frizzy white hair in a shorter and less controlled version of Kamaria’s coils. Thinking of Kamaria gives you a sickening punch of guilt, and on that thought you instantly think of all the things you regret. Not trying harder to fight Ilse. The slave you killed. You want to wretch onto the floor, but this is not the time to show weakness. 

 

“They’re going to measure you now. Once that’s done, Gertie here,” She gestures to the navy blue skinned one, “She’s going to piece together something cute and fabulous for you.”

 

Gertie has amber-orange eyes, wrinkles of time and terror crevicing her skin. She gestures for you to hold out your arms, which you comply. Any fleeting thoughts of throwing a bitchy fit gets thrown to the wind. You have no quarrel with these people, and they will be the ones who suffer most from any difficult behavior. They take your jacket off, the chill raising the hair on your arms. You’re glad for the almost living heat pulsating underneath your toes. The attendant with a snout unlaces your tunic. That’s when you snap. 

 

“No.” You hold her hand in place, trying your damnedest not to break their fingers.

 

“Darling. Dearest.” Ilse drawls, “You have to let them work. They can’t if you stop them.” 

 

Black splotches your eyes. You don’t want to do this, you don’t want to expose yourself to these strangers, especially with how you’ve mistreated your body in the past. Slowly, you release your grip on the attendant’s hands and shimmy out of the tunic yourself. No one says anything, but you know they are drilling their eyes into the strips of scars too well aligned to be accidental. Tears sting your eyes. 

 

“Oh my Lord and Lady, what do we have here?” Ilse walks around to your front, where your tattoo is. She giggles like she just caught middle schoolers making out, “Looks like someone’s a fan of yours, Loki Boy. You know what they say about couples getting tattoos, right? Do you have one that matches?” She laughs again, “Nevermind, I think I would have seen it last night.”

 

He’s very carefully not meeting any of your million of reflection’s eyes.

 

You get pricked with needles, prodded, and measured by strings for god knows how long. Through the mirrors, you look at Loki standing to the side, arms crossed, glaring at any sound louder than a pin drop. Ilse stands close to him, almost too close to be comfortably strangers. You map the designs flicking across his face, memorizing the curves and twists of his markings. Are all Frost Giants differently marked? You try going on as many tangent thoughts as possible, focusing on the pain of standing still for so long, try to make a game plan, anything to keep your mind off of last night. 

 

The slaves drape fabric after fabric on your arms that they have you hold outstretched. Ilse directs them to “Yes, that, add that, no take that away, show a little more skin will you? This isn’t a chastity cult.” 

 

You suddenly become aware of your reflection staring back at you. She is wearing a rich navy outfit, the tunic nothing more than a couple of long strips of stretchy fabric twisted and tied in an intricate way that offers aesthetic before function. Four strips of leftover fabric are let loose, falling past your hips, two in the front and two in the back. Leggings cover your legs, the material seemingly thin but also slightly fuzzy, locking in warmth. It suddenly feels almost too hot on the podium you’re standing on. 

 

“Adorable. Loki, don’t you agree?” She jabs him with her elbow, “Isn’t she adorable?” 

 

 He mumbles something you can’t catch in response. 

 

Clapping her hands, Ilse proclaims, “Alright, we’re in agreement!” She turns to the smallest slave of the three, one who looks human save for their pointed ears, “You, whatever you go by, get her some shoes. I  _ hope _ you have her measurements memorized because you need to keep working on the dresses we’ve previously discussed. Dear,” She smiles at you, “We need to get going. We don’t want to keep Hela waiting!” 

 

“What does she want tonight, do you know?” Loki asks quietly, though loud enough for you to catch while the smallest slave helps you figure out the straps on the fur lined boots. 

 

“Just dinner. Hope nothing’s poisoned, you know how Hela likes to play.”  


	12. Chapter 12

Though you are positively famished, you find yourself only absentmindedly poking at the plate in front of you. Some things you recognize, like a steaming pile of potatoes to the side, but whatever the meaty thing in the center of the table, you lose your appetite just looking at. It is a mass of fleshy tentacles and juices, and you swear to the goddess you see its muscles occasionally twitch every time one of the jabbering guests stabs into it for a portion.

 

You place your hand on Loki’s thigh from under the table for some semblance of stability. To reassure yourself that he is there, next to you. His presence calms your frazzling nerves, your body recognizing him as a positive force in this court of terrifying decay. He places one of his hands over yours and squeezes it reassuringly, all without meeting your eyes. You wish that he would just look at you once, giving you a wicked looking smile to show that things between you are alright.

 

He does not.

 

The place you are sitting at is for the less essential sons of Laufey and those who are not highly ranked but are also not slaves. You fall into that strangely gray area, and though you are some kind of… political prisoner, you suppose this is a way to parade you around, for people to look at you. Some in this court have probably had never seen a full-blooded human before. One of the slaves looks at you when they believe you will not notice, sneaking careful glances whenever they pass.

 

Loki is still covered in chains, though you know they are more for show than for actual function. A collar around his throat to mark possession of Laufey, chains around his arms to hinder movement and spell casting. It is a form of hazing, you suppose, to carry him around in seemingly total subjugation to his torturers. Though it would make his life easier to blend in with the Jotun’s, he still clings to his human features like a life raft in the middle of a hurricane, his face the pale color of ivory, his eyes the warm green of a forest in the summer.

 

There are no handcuffs on your hands, no chains to slow down your movements or bottle up your abilities. No one here sees you as any sort of threat to their wellbeing, because you are small and you are insignificant. Compared to them, their lifespans reaching over millennia, their magick still feared by even the Earth’s better sorcerers, what could you, a human, possibly do to _them?_

 

 _You are not a threat yet,_ the darker part of you whispers maliciously, _but you will be._

 

Pressing both of your lips together, you grab the goblet of wine and raise it to your lips. Before you actually drink, you remember the last conversation you had with Ilse before being jostled over to the banquet hall.

 

“Wait, wait, this is the one.” Ilse had finished saying to the seamstress, looking over your body with approval. “She’ll wear this tonight, with the boots. _Perfect,_ ” she smiled at your appearance, fangs sharp and threatening, “Lovely. Once dinner is over, have the breastplate ready for tomorrow, at least. I don’t think Hela’s going to give her a chance to breathe before she’s tossed into the Abyss of the Squirrel.”

  
That was the only thing in the entire afternoon to captured your attention. “I’m sorry, the abyss of the what?” 

  
Ilse giggled. “You will see.”

 

You do _not_ want to see.

 

Whatever next she has planned for the court’s entertainment, you should probably walk into sober. Do you want to spend this high-stress situation inebriated? Absolutely. Are you going to die tonight because you are drunk? No. You place the goblet back on the table and stare at it wistfully.

 

After marking all emergency exits, hoping that some calvary will crash the party and scoop up the bad guys with as little mental stress on you as possible, you notice a large shadow in the corner of your eye standing too close for anything but stranger danger alarms to sound. He is one of the more massive giants, and if you manage to stand tall and straight, he still has four or five feet on you. Even with the hostile look, he gives you, one that suggests that you should be the one on the platter feeding the horde of lesser sons, you find yourself surprisingly calm in the situation. As though the cold atmosphere has wormed its way into your soul, numbing your emotions the way it numbs your body.

 

“‘Sup?” You greet him, giving your potatoes a poke of finality.

 

His ruby eyes burn through your head for a moment before he states, “Ilse has put me in charge of escorting you.”

 

“Cool, cool.” You stab the potatoes even harder, the hard sound of your metal plate clanking against the silverware. “Are we going somewhere now, or…?”

 

“You will come with me now.”

 

Chains rattle in the background as Loki stands to his own full height, still significantly shorter than the other giant. “Then I suppose you’ll have to take me with you. Where she goes, so do I.” Something in the pit of your stomach heats up the way he says it, the cold determination in his voice that suggests there is just no other path to take.

 

The giant smiles at him, as though responding to something a six-year-old said that is both courageous and controversial. “Makes no difference, I suppose. Once we are done, of course, there are other matters you and I must see to together.”

 

You mentally mark off another thing to ask Loki about. Over and over these people are hinting and prodding you to ask Loki about something, you see it in their smiles and the way they jeer after an especially offhand remark. You grit your teeth for now and stay silent, knowing that a public outburst wouldn’t end well for either of you.

 

“So like, do I _want_ to know where we are going?” You ask after following the giant out into the halls, Loki standing within easy grabbing distance.

 

The giant glances at you sideways. “Through this door.” Metal grates against the stone, the floor around the door chipped and scratched from corrosion. The hair on your arms stands on end as you stare into the inky blackness, the bitter taste of evil on your tongue. Primal, old, and hunger, something in that room wants to feast on the warmth of your blood, tearing your skin off and tasting the salt of your sweat.

 

“I’d rather not-” You’re cut off as your lungs crunch with the force of a hand shoving against your back, throwing you into the pitch area. You choke with indignation as the door with its precious light slams, laughter echoing against the unseen walls around you. You’re struck with the unforgivable sense of _danger, danger, danger,_ your breath short and your eyes filling up with tears. You don’t have the luxury of telling whether or not you’re blacking out, closing your eyes doesn’t do anything to alleviate the pain. You focus on breathing, inhaling, holding the breath, slowly exhaling through your mouth. Repeat. Repeat.

 

You see the slave in the back of your mind, _you fucking idiot,_ you couldn’t even save that person, do you really deserve to live? You breathe in. Hold. _Now you’re going to die by god knows what._ Exhale slowly. _How are you going to get out of this one?_ Breath in, hold.

 

 _Tears to drink, flesh to feast on,_ something far away rumbles. Your ears buzz, your skin itching with the sense of being watched. You curl into yourself and let the numbness of the floor overtake your body. You don’t let your teeth chatter, you let the cold of the floor bleed into you and shut down the pieces that you can’t have ruining your focus.

 

Focus. Focus. Focus. You listen to the sounds of the room, trying to detect airflow that might suggest an exit. You listen to the steady dripping of a liquid from multiple places, you discover the soft whistle of wind through the building, and you hear the echoing _click, click, click_ of something coming towards you.

 

Sniffing. Not yours, something bigger with a better nose. You can hear it chitter and gnash its teeth together. Without eating anything since breakfast, you notice that everything smells sharper than before. The water is crisp, the stone is clean, and something that permeates the area like a rotting barn is making its way towards you. You stumble in the dark, trying desperately to find a place to hide, but without your eyes you can’t see any crevices you could hide out in. You trip, your body singing with pain as you slam into your side into a puddle of water. The chill freezes you to the bone, the padded boots and belt managing to keep the fall from cracking your bones.

 

Everything stops, then the thing in the room screeches. The clicks become louder, closer together, followed by a whoomp, whoomp, whoomp of heavy feet bolting towards you. Everything freezes, and through the sounds and smells of the predator closing in on you, you see. Not with your eyes.

 

You step out of its way and back up next to a pillar, the creature rushing past in a flurry of wind, fur, and teeth. Water trickles nearby, the sounds of the current louder than the dull dripping of the other openings.

 

You take a step out, trying to tiptoe towards it.   _Click, click, click._ The animal is looking for you, tapping its claws against the floor. It hisses again, the sounds thunderous against the icy silence of the cavern. Quickly doing a 180, you press yourself back up to the pillar you tried to walk away from as it throws itself into the area you were just in.

 

 _Click. Click. Click._ You squeeze your way around the pillar, keeping close enough as possible and avoiding having to face the beast directly. You can smell the fur, something distinctly wild and animalistic. You feel the ground, the way it trembles every time the razor claw hits the ground. _Blood to drink. Flesh to eat. Tears to taste._ You hear the being’s chant as it licks the floor as though to taste if you are there. It slams a claw back onto the ground. _Click._

 

Slowly, the animal moves away from you. You listen for the water again, letting the cool air sting your nostrils as you try to sense how far it is. You close your eyes, though it makes no difference, and desperately try to open up your mind to see the opening the way you saw the danger. Something warm drips from your nose, onto your upper lip. Your brain hurts but you can see it, _almost,_ it’s over on the other side of the room. The air whistles almost noiselessly through a breathing shaft just big enough for you to squeeze yourself through.

 

Click. The animal snaps it’s nail against the floor again, the noise bouncing off two other crumbling pillars in your path.

 

Oh. _Oh._

 

That’s how it’s looking for you.

 

You map the object big enough to hide you and wait for it to click it’s claw again. It moves a few leaps, then clicks, and listens. Moves. Clicks. Listens. You wait for it to move again, it’s paws smacking against the ground loud enough to cover your tracks and slide behind what you can only guess is left over from a wall. _Click, click, click._ It pauses, but doesn’t come after you. The animal bounds away once more, you use the sound to try to detect the next place you can hide.

 

It moves, and so do you. Closer to the opening, closer to the freedom it breathes into the cavern. The surface. Air. You lick your dry lips, leaping forward again the established pattern the animal gives you. _Keep going,_ your instincts say, _keep going. Safety._ You reach the opening, water gurgling out and pooling around the rocks. Quickly, you climb in, embracing the needles of pain from the freezing water.

 

You stare up the opening of the duct, noting the carved footholds in the edge of the waterfall. You test your weight on it by climbing up a few steps, your fingers almost instantaneously losing feeling. Quickly as you can, you pull yourself up, one move at a time, until you see the light and the stifling heat of anything above the freezing temperature. You squeeze out of the opening, a horde of giants and slaves waiting for you as you wriggle yourself the the duct onto the floor, which is only a few inches down.

 

You lay there, panting, sure that youe body was going to be paralyzed for the rest of your life. Your boots managed to keep your feet warm, up until the point of the climb. Your hands, however, could barely be pried open. Your body burns at the barest flicker of heat from the fire on the other end of the room. The light is blinding, tears burst into your eyes at the sudden pain, your head pounds as your senses overwhelm themselves.

 

You force yourself to stand and to look her in the eye, barely managing to do only that. You want to curl into a ball and never open your eyes again.

 

“Loki.” Hela’s voice rings out, stern. As though she’s an older sister catching her baby brother stealing cookies from the cookie jar, not like a homicidal maniac torturing her family members for the heck of it. “Do you have something you want to tell me about your special friend?”

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this is taking so long! I was forever stuck on this chapter. I don't know, I feel like I'm running dry on ideas after the previous story I wrote. In comparison, the narration feels kind of stale? I guess? Maybe it's because I had more time to dedicate myself to world building over winter break and this semester is not pulling any punches. I'm trying my absolute best, though. 
> 
> Anyway, trying desperately to get better. Actually, any kind of writing prompts or suggestions are really welcome at this point. Definite smut scene coming up in either this chapter or next chapter.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoa! This is... Super Different? If you are first reading this after Nov. 2nd, then you have nothing to worry about. If you are returning from a first read that took place before Nov. 2nd, then you may notice that it's as though I completely redid the chapter from ground up. 
> 
> Yes.
> 
> I felt creatively burnt out with the fast paced and strict schedule I kept myself to with this story and gave up because I didn't like where it was going. For Nanowrimo, I asked my friend how I should dedicate my word count goal, and mentioned a dead in the water story people seemed to like. 
> 
> "Do that one," she said. 
> 
> So I am. And to do that, I have to undo some of the less savory things that I wrote to continue the story because I'm a perfectionist.

Loki’s fingers grip your arm, his nails squeezing your already bruised muscles but you are thankful for the pain. Your senses awaken further, the cold having numbed your mind and body quite a bit. He holds you against his chest, your back pressed up against his skin. His muscles are all tense and firm, as though preparing to yank you away at a moment’s notice. The stiffness in your legs is the only thing keeping you upright, a fizzling sense of frozen exhaustion slowly burning through your head.

 

Is your face wet? Oh, right. You were crying about something. The tears had only provided a moment’s relief against the cold, the heat nothing more than a mild blip against your skin before succumbing to the temperature of the grand hall. Black tingles in the edges of your vision, though you do not feel ready to faint. No, you may simply fall asleep on your feet, maybe let the darkness completely overtake your consciousness. That would feel nice.

 

The fingers dig into your arms further, the sharpness causing the splotches to recede. You blink with a sudden burst of alertness, remembering where you are: a place where any form of weakness shown is immediately exploited in ways worse than even _your_ creative mind can fathom. Straightening your back is an unexpectedly painful task, something inside your spine popping as you do so.

 

Luckily it doesn’t seem as though Hela notices your oddly angled posture, she instead seems content to be staring just over your right shoulder, where Loki’s face would be. You don’t remember if they had been talking before this staring contest. Though you can’t twist your head to see Loki’s expression, you certainly see Hela’s. Nerves spark and crawl through your skin, and when Hela’s eyes flicker to over to yours, you have to repel the urge to bend over and vomit.

 

“Dismissed.” Hela waves her hand in your general direction. Your body jerks backward, pulled by those fingers that still dig into your skin.

 

“Can you walk? At least until we get to the hall?” Loki’s voice is so low it takes you a moment to register that he has spoken.

 

Your hip from where you fell stings badly enough to bring tears back to your eyes, but you can manage a limp. _Just until the hall,_ Loki’s words echo in your mind like a motivational chant. _Until the hall, until the hall._ You focus on breathing, casting your eyes down onto the floor, so you don’t have to see how little progress you are making. One of Loki’s hands is placed on your back, though you almost miss the focus that the pain in your arms gave.

 

Sobs almost burst forth when you clear the corner to the hallway, finally out of sight. “Loki,” you whisper, eyeing the guard who follows, both hands carrying a wicked looking spear nonchalantly, “I don’t think I can walk all the way down to your room.”

 

Without another word, he steps forward and picks you up like a bride, arms tightly wrapped around you as though he fears someone would try prying you away. “I have you,” Loki promises, his voice an almost stressed purr, as though he is working to be comforting yet is still preparing for a fight of some kind.

 

“I’m not heavy?” You lean against his chest, your eyes threatening to shut.

 

“Do not go to sleep, my raven,” Loki jostles you just enough to give you a spike of adrenaline from fear of falling. “Talk to me. Tell me about your friends back home.”

  
  


“Oh, them?” Sleep sings to you like a forgotten lover, its reach just barely within your grasp but painfully rejected. “They are nice.”

 

“Their names?” Loki requests, and you are certain you can hear a hint of panic in his voice.

 

“Um... I lived with Kamaria and her kids, Persephone and Mahina. They are all very nice.”

 

“I hope to meet them.” Loki offers, his fingernails digging into the skin of your leg. Your vision sharpens, and you hiss a breath of pain. “Tell me about your life.”

 

“Seattle.” Your tongue feels thick inside your mouth. “That’s where I went to school. People thought it was weird that someone who believed in magic was trying for a STEM degree.”

 

“Describe a STEM degree to me.”

 

On and on he goes, picking at your life and making sure you answer. With a heavy voice and slurred words you give him a brief synopsis of your life in Washington. He asks about Micah, and whats-her-name back in Crowley.

 

“We got closer um… after you left.” Your eyelids are heavy, and you just want to close them.

 

“Closer,” Loki echoes as a prompt.

 

You frown, trying to think of how to describe it. “Gram and Gramps replaced you after a few weeks of nothing.”

 

Loki doesn’t say anything for a moment. “I see.”

 

“I mean, no one could really replace you. They both had jobs and couldn’t take over your chores, so they had to hire another ranch-hand.”

 

“Oh.” His voice is almost foreign as he processes what you said.

 

“Her name is Brenda. She's really super nice.” You nuzzle your face into his chest. “Brenda is ex-military and  taught me how to swear in Russian.”

 

A puff of air escapes his lungs, though he manages to choke down the laugh before it sounds. “Did she now. That certainly sounds like something you would want to learn.”

 

“I forgot all of them.” You yawn.

 

Before you can nod off, the doors to Loki’s room edge in the corner of your vision. “I’m going to have to put you down,” he warns, sloping his hold on you until your feet touch the ground. You quickly lean against the wall, lungs expanding as far as they can go yet the intake of air far less than needed. While you focus on monitoring your deep breaths, the guard unlocks the door and fetches the chain.

 

When the guard etches a rune into the lock, you carefully note how he does it, though you suppose that if Loki could figure out a way to escape, he would have already. Once the chain is locked back around Loki's leg cuffs, he wraps walks over to where you are standing and loops his arm around your waist. “Come, let’s get you cleaned up.”

 

“Cleaned up?” You merely repeat his words to show that you are awake. He hauls you to the bathroom, the steam from the bath so hot it burns. The bones in your legs feel like they are disintegrating beneath your muscles, and one more step is all it takes for you to collapse. You are saved from the unforgiving stone floor by Loki’s quick reflexes. His arm tightens around your waist, the other reaching around to steady your uncontrolled descent further. The rock feels shockingly good against your cheek as your body folds in on itself.  

 

“Just let me sleep.” Muscles you did not even realize you have begin to tremble and ache, you cannot move on your own except to shiver with a cold you do not feel.

 

“I’m afraid that you need a bath first.” He begins untying the straps your coat, then starts working on your tunic. Laces and buttons are undone, the front opening with little problem, though the sleeves have to be practically peeled off your skin. The side that you fell on is wet and muddy, the flesh revealed to be tinged pink and several shades lighter than usual. Loki murmurs something to quiet for you to hear and begins rubbing the affected arm.

 

His hands feel warmer than usual. After a few minutes of him frantically rubbing your arms, you feel like someone is sticking pins deep into your skin. As tiny pricks of pain begin flaring out over your muscles, you start whimpering.

 

Your shoes come off next, your feet shockingly dry. After a few more minutes of carefully teasing away your clothes, you lay shivering on the floor as Loki tries coaxing you into the water. “You need to warm up, love.”

 

The noncommittal grunt you make sums up your whole opinion of this bullshit situation.

 

Loki tries again, “Remember last night? I promised I would have you if you let me. Would you like to give you a taste of what I can do?”

 

“Goodnight.” You mumble, laying your head against your arm and closing your eyes.

 

Arms pick you back up, and then you are falling. You shriek indignantly just before you land in the water, and _holy god and goddess_ you feel it boiling, burning your skin. Spluttering as you surface, you give Loki what you hope is the Look of Ultimate Betrayal™, arms crossed firmly over your chest as a spasm of cold shudders through your body.

 

“It’s too hot.” Your teeth chatter harder than before, and any of your exposed skin is suddenly frozen, when did you become this cold? The choice is either boil to death or freeze to death. You slink back into the water until it comes up to your chin.

 

Loki removes some of his jewelry, placing it on the floor. “Stay there, I am going to request some bandages.”

 

You dip into the water further so that it covers your mouth and blow out some bubbles in response. Now that you are actually in the water, you decide it would probably be for the best if you did not get out. Bending your fingers sends little flares of pain through your arm, and you can barely feel the water streaming through them. That cannot be good.

 

When Loki returns, he holds a metallic box of some kind. He finishes shrugging off his clothes, then steps into the water, placing the box on the edge of the stone. “We need to have a look at your face.”

 

You give him a look of suspicion, but slowly make your way to where he stands. With care, he cups your chin and inspects the damage done to you by your fall. “It is not terrible,” he says, “certainly not the worst injury to ever be afflicted on your person.”

 

The water stings against your face as Loki brushes away the dirt and grime with a cloth he brought with him. Ointment comes next, something sharp smelling and herbal infused with the salve. It causes your eyes to water, the scent stinging your nostrils and making you cough with surprise.

 

When he decides you are sufficiently warm, he helps haul you out of the tub and wraps you into a towel, quickly finding a tunic for you to wear. And then you are in bed, under a mountain of blankets to maintain the current body temperature of just-below-hell celsius.

 

Loki crawls in after you, pulling your body towards his. He places a hand against the underside of your forearm and sighs. “Lay back. I’ll go get something to keep the frost from setting in.”

 

“What?” You mutter, already half asleep. Black follows, overtaking your vision and throwing you into a sleep so deep you nearly become one with the universe from the nirvana achieved.

 

It feels like a blink. One moment, you are speaking to Loki, the next, he is sound asleep next to you. You sit up, folding your hands over the covers, and survey the damage. Your fingers and palms are tightly wrapped with bandages, the strange smelling salve wafting from your skin. Slowly, you shift to the edge of the bed to avoid waking Loki, sliding down to the floor as silently as possible.

 

Your head is pounding with a headache that rivals even your worst hangovers. Thirst itches the back of your throat, every swallow a dangerous game of _am I going to choke or will I be spared a laughable death?_ Though you look over every conceivable place in this room for a safe source of water, you don’t see a pitcher or cups anywhere. Not even on Loki’s desk, which you swear had at a large container of water the morning before. All that is left is a bottle that smells suspiciously of alcohol, and though you are greatly tempted to empty it, your liver isn’t going to pull a reverse-Jesus and turn that shit into water.

 

A small pile of clothes lays by the door. You walk over and look them over, holding them up to the light and then holding them against your body. Without further thought, you pull your current tunic over your head and quickly change, slipping on leather pants, boots lined with fur, and a long-sleeved shirt that falls just below your waist.

 

Just as you finish dressing, one of the large double doors cracks open. You spin around quickly to face your assailant, and to your absolute chagrin, you see Ilse’s head poke out from the opening. “There you are!” Her grin is wide and terrifying. “Glad to see you are both awake and dressed. Hela is giving you the great honor of a private audience!”

 

“Of course,” you nod, knowing that any kind of refusal would be overlooked at best and punished at worst, “one second.” You walk back over to the desk and grab the wine bottle, downing the rest of its contents.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, the smut was what went, but I don't think it lines up with either characters involved. I wrote it because I didn't know what else to write, and now I do. Am I going to write smut in the next couple of chapters to make up for it thought? Yes. You're all going to like it more, I promise.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there, demons, it's me, Ya Girl. 
> 
> Are you reading this for the first time after the date of Nov. 3rd? Great! Ignore this. 
> 
> Are returning to catch up on the new chapter? STOP, THIS IS A PSA. I rewrote chapters twelve and thirteen because I hated them. Chapter twelve isn't all that different, but chapter thirteen has been burned with salt and redone from the ground up. Do you want to know what's going on? GREAT, SO DO I. Please go back and read them! 
> 
> Thank you!

After only a second of debating, you choose not to wake Loki. With only the vague sense that you are going to regret the decision later, you quietly follow Ilsie out the door and through the halls. You have to practically jog to keep up with her long strides, the tall Jotun not bothering to slow down for your stubby legs. “So, um,” you try making some conversation, “what does the queen want with me?”

 

“Don’t know.” Ilse shrugs. “You should be worried, though.” 

 

“Worried is my permanent mental state,” you declare, “but I would appreciate it if you specified further.” 

 

“People don’t typically survive the Squirrel. You’ve caught her eye, is all.” Elsie lets the ramifications of that sink in all on their own. 

 

You had to work your ass off to not call attention to yourself back home, in a place where the extraordinary is medicated and brushed under the rug. You suppose that in a situation such as this, where people like Loki live, you let your guard down expecting to be overlooked as normal. Apparently, your assumptions are false and now you are doomed. Biting your lower lip, you try looking for any kind of escape route you can take. 

 

“Don’t even think about it,” Ilsie says calmly without turning around. 

 

After walking for at least two miles, you think, the muscles in your abdomen squelching, you finally come to a set of wicked looking double doors. They are the purest black you have ever seen, seemingly sucking in all sources of light that flow into the hall. Shards of metal twist into a border along the edges of base relief carvings padded with gold. Wolves are depicted in the twelve golden squares, six for each door, in various stages of eating prey. Whoever the artist was did not shy away from gore, either. Intestines from a cowering humanoid are splayed out in the square closest to you, the details incredibly fine and meticulous. 

 

Gross. 

 

The doors open on their own, revealing a long room, wickedly dangerous weapons decorating the walls like ornaments of death. At the very end of the room, standing in front of a wall of glass so clear you nearly think there is nothing there, is the foreboding figure of Hela.

 

“Enter.” Her voice vibrates through the room, echoing under your skin and causing a spike of adrenaline running through your body. 

 

The moment you enter the room, the door slams firmly shut behind you. 

 

You are now trapped in a room with the goddess of death.  _ No, _ a little voice whispers in your ear, _ the goddess of death is trapped with you. _ That is your drunk and crazy voice. You tend to not listen to it as much as your, well, arguably saner voices, but in this instance, it almost feels almost comforting. As you walk towards the desk that glitters with the stars shining through the window, your anxiety reaches its peak and stagnates, your heart thudding horribly in your chest and your old coping mechanisms surfacing once again. 

 

Hela speaks again, still facing the frozen tundra of Jotunheim. “Sit.” 

 

You look at the chair that faces a throne-like seat on Hela’s side of the desk. In that split second, you come up with a laughably atrocious idea that will probably get you killed, but at least you will die with some satisfaction that you managed to annoy one of the most powerful people you have ever met into killing you personally. In your drunken state, that seems like one of the best ways to go, considering the circumstances. 

 

When Hela turns around to meet your eyes, she sees you sitting criss-cross-applesauce in the middle of her desk, hands pressed together primly just below your chin. 

 

"What do you think you are doing?” She asks, arching one perfectly manicured eyebrow in your direction. Her voice is neither annoyed nor amused, hanging in that dangerous gray area that could mean either you impress her and survive or misstep and have to get your remains scrubbed from the floor.

 

“You told me to sit,” you widen your eyes and give her that hazy look you would give PTA members back home just to unnerve them. With Hela, you hope she decides you are too addled in the head to be of any use to whatever she plans. 

 

Her shoulders are perfectly poised, a hand on her hip as she looks you over. “So I did,” Hela responds, sitting down on her chair. You have to tilt your chin downwards to make eye contact now, and with that action, you know you are entering an even more delicately dangerous territory. “I have a few questions to ask you, girl.” 

 

“Oki-doki.” You nod, giving her an absent minded smile. Even thinking about lying to her sends terrorized warning signs through your mind. 

 

“While in the abyss that traps the son of the Ratatoskr, I would like to know how you managed to escape so quickly and so…” She cocks her head, looking you over as though inspecting fruit for purchase. “Intact.” 

 

You pause for a beat too long trying to come up with a simplified version of what you can do. “I’m good at finding patterns,” you manage to say under Hela’s pretrifying scrutiny.

 

“I’m sure you are, but I am also sure that your talents lie a little beyond the skill of finding patterns.” She drums her fingernails against the marble of the desk, the sharp  _ tap tap tap _ like gunshots in your ears. “In fact, I believe your ‘talents’ would be of great use out in the field.” 

 

“In the, uh, in the field?” Your mouth turns involuntarily downwards, your wall of carefully structured insane indifference breaking to a thousand pieces, each shard almost certainly showing on your face. 

 

She stands, her smile sending your very soul into cardiac arrest. “Tell my brother that he should plan the next campaign with more care than usual.” Hela waves her hand in your direction, turning around and standing back in front of the glass. “You are dismissed.”

 

You hustle the fuck on out of there. 

 

Ilse returns you with little fanfare, not even bothering to say goodbye as you step through the door. 

 

Loki is mid stride, fingers digging through his hair, his eyes wild and panicked when you walk in. His gaze snaps towards you within a millisecond of you entering the room, and he starts towards you. “What did they do? Did they hurt you? Where did they take you? What happened there?” He frantically peppers you with questions, his hands cradling your face as he looks it over for any signs of damage. 

 

Guilt bleeds into your heart from making him worry. 

 

“Your sister… um, she wanted to see me privately.” You explain, “I was already up and dressed. So I went.” 

 

“And you did not think to wake me?” Loki asks, his voice strained. 

 

“Well,” you pause, seeing his face go from worried to mildly pissed, “I thought to let you sleep?” 

 

He removes his hands from your face to your shoulders. “I see.” Loki’s eyes flicker away from your face, onto the ground. You can almost hear his brain working, the synapses firing rapidly in various directions as he carefully words his next sentence. “While you are here, I would  _ deeply _ prefer it if you kept me informed of such things.” 

 

“Okay.” Shame heats your face. “I’m sorry.” 

 

“This is very difficult for both of us.” Loki folds his arms around you in a hug. The bitter aftertaste of fear mingles with his scent, his body still tense but relaxing with every moment you are pressed up against him. You bury your face in his chest as he kisses the top of your head. “I just want you to stay safe.” 

 

“I know.” You pause, then snicker suddenly. “How the turntables.”

 

“What?” He asks, still slightly cross.

 

“I used to be the one taking care of you.” Not that you are bitter about the sudden swap in roles the two of you have undergone, but it is difficult to switch between the two mentalities. Especially since you have long prided yourself on self-sufficiency. 

 

Though his mouth pulls up into a smile, it is only for the barest of moments. Something weighs heavily on his mind, but he hesitates before speaking, settling on saying, “Tell me about the meeting. Everything. What she said, how she behaved... ” Loki pulls you over to his desk, where a platter of food sits, and  _ goddess be praised,  _ a tall pitcher of water beckons you.

 

So you go over the morning’s meeting with him, guzzling glass after glass of water and inhaling food between words. “She told me to sit,” you say, sniffing one of the fruit pieces before experimentally biting into it. 

 

“And?” Loki prompts.

 

“I sat down.” You look down at your plate and move the piece of bread with your finger. 

 

Loki’s eyes narrow as he looks you over. You sometimes forget that he knows you very, very well and understands your fun little habits of making power moves whenever possible. “Anything else you want to add?” He asks. 

 

“Imighthavechosentonotsitonthechairbutonthedeskinstead.” You say, hoping it would be to fast and too quiet for him to understand before moving on, “and anyways, she asked me how I esa-”

 

“You  _ did WHAT.” _ Loki places his hand on his chest, his eyes nearly bugging out of his head. 

 

“She didn’t specify  _ where _ to sit-” You try defending your decision, unfortunately finding deaf ears that will not accept any explanations. 

 

“Do you have any idea how easy it would be for her to just  _ snap her fingers and turn you to dust?” _

 

“W-e-l-l she  _ didn’t, _ which shows that she is a villain of class,” you say stubbornly, frowning at the taste of one of the spreads provided. It tastes an awful lot like mangoes. Do they have mangoes up here in space or are they Earth Imported? Is there a human farmer who imports mangoes to aliens? Does he  _ know _ he imports mangoes to aliens? Does he leave like a cart of mangoes out in the middle of the field for a spaceship to suck up in its tractor beam? 

 

Loki snaps his fingers under your nose, bringing you out of your thoughts of mangoes rising up in the middle of nowhere, basking in the green warmth of the radioactive flying saucer. “Are you drunk right now?” 

 

“Who, me? Drunk?” You taste the mango spread again, running it over your tongue. “No?” 

 

He glares at you. 

 

“Okay, yeah. I saw the wine or whatever here and at first I didn’t drink any, but when Ilse came to get me I panicked.” It  _ has _ to be mango. You are at least eighty-five percent sure of it. “I’m sorry.” 

 

“Right, well,” Loki concedes, “I suppose that it always how you have reacted to stressful situations. Just… try to stay away from the spirits. That is all I ask of you.” 

 

You nod, showing that you are going to try at least. “I can’t promise you anything yet.” 

 

“That’s fair, I suppose. What else happened?” Loki picks up a mug of steaming something and drinks. 

 

“Hela asked me how I escaped with my limbs still attached, I said I was good at finding patterns which, for the record, she did not believe a solid second of.” You take a bite of the sandwich you carefully constructed. “And then she said for you to plan your next campaign with more care than usual.” 

 

That catches his attention. “Repeat what you just said.” Loki’s voice is tense and careful, his eyes looking at you with a shock of fear that sends shivers down your spine. 

 

“She said that you need to plan your next campaign with more care than usual?” 

 

“No.” Loki stands suddenly, running his hands through his hair and looking at the floor. “No, no, no, no.” 

 

“Sorry, do I want to be informed as to why that made you say the word ‘no’ five times?” You ask, taking another bite of your sandwich. Loki’s worry, while easily one of the most infectious thing the universe knows, has not quite battered its way into your drunken mind yet. 

 

“The weapons,” he spits, gesturing to the books surrounding you. “The weapons they have been hunting. I’ve been sending them all on  _ suicide missions. _ All the objects I have specifically picked because they are impossible to get to and now,  _ now. _ ” Loki almost chokes, looking back at you. “Hela is going to send you to retrieve the next object.” He begins to pace furiously, his chains dragging along the floor. “Failure means death, which means I have to give you a task which I know you can do, which means everyone will know that one, you are important to me, and two, I have been selecting the more difficult ones  _ on purpose _ and sending those soldiers to their death  _ on purpose.” _

 

“She didn’t specifically say that I was going to be handling the next campaign.” Dread churns your stomach, your words empty and not believed by their speaker. 

 

“That’s the exact kind of game she likes to play.” He says it with such a tone of finality, as though he has already mapped the next steps to his plan. “And we will just have to accept her challenge.” Loki reaches for one of the books on the furthest shelf, pulling it down and opening it. 

 

“What are we going to do?” You ask quietly. 

 

“Find something that is not going to kill you,” Loki states grimly. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I LIVE. 
> 
> Why did I stop writing, you ask? 
> 
> To be completely honest, I felt creatively burnt out. I had a very strict writing schedule as well as two other active fics with less strict writing schedules, and soon I was just writing to meet a quota instead of writing something I wanted to read. 
> 
> I redid the last two chapters because I absolutely could not stand what I had produced. The last two chapters were published with very little editing, because I couldn't even stand to look it over. That's how bad it was. 
> 
> For Nanowrimo, I was trying to juggle how much of the word count goal would go into each fic, and I was running some things over with a friend of mine to see what she thought. When I mentioned a dead fic that people have been requesting me to reboot, she said 'no contest. do that one'
> 
> With her scrutiny and a large break from this specific storyline, I was able to grasp on my vision for where this story is going once again. 
> 
> So yeah. I'm not going to have a schedule with this one, especially during Nanowrimo where I'm not even supposed to be editing, I'm just supposed to be writing. But rest assured that I am, in fact, working on this and will continue updating at least semi regularly in the future. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who is returning!


	15. Chapter 15

Unfortunately, although there are objects that could be easily obtained by a trained Jotun footsoldier, you are neither trained nor a seven to twelve-foot tall muscled beast.    


  
“There are other things you are gifted at, for one thing.” Loki rustles through the book, eyes frantically scanning each page for something specific you can see is itching in the back of his memory. “You can see things beyond the normal scope of reality.”    


  
The two of you are seated at his desk, though you supposed it is more of a multi-purpose table. The platters of breakfast are still on the table, a large kettle steaming with hot water. The food and drinks have somehow stayed the same temperature as when they first arrived, though it has to be midmorning by now. You watched Loki go at the books for at least an hour, muttering to himself as he goes through book after book. Though the table is decently large, you clear away the corner so you can sit as close to Loki as possible. He is the only anchor you have in this hurricane of a nightmare, and the closer he is, the more grounded in reality you feel.   


  
“Yeah?” Already a fact the two of you established. God, even a year ago, this conversation would have sent you straight to a high-security psychiatrist office.

  
  
“Which means that if we find a weapon that is tucked away beyond what, say, the average Jotun can perceive.” Loki absentmindedly takes a sip of water, his hand almost knocking his cup over when he sets it back down. “That way I can at least provide a somewhat plausible excuse.”   


  
“Wouldn’t literally everyone just call bullshit?” You pop a small fruit in your mouth. It tastes salty and bitter, the texture almost rubbery to chew. 

  
  
“The thing about courts is that, as long as there is no significant evidence to oppose your claims, no one will actually say anything.” He glances up to you, his mouth in a line from worry. “They will have their suspicions of course, but since I am not in a position that would benefit anyone to steal, they will most likely leave it at that.”    


  
“Most likely,” you echo, eyes downcast as your slowly sobering mind fully takes stock of just how deeply fucked you genuinely are. 

  
  
“Well, with some exceptions.” Loki traces the decorated calligraphy on his current page. “But they will not bother you.” The way he says it, with his tone of voice mingling with defeat, it makes your heart squeeze.    


  
“But they bother you, I suspect.” You cross your arms and look him over for any kind of reaction. He offers you none, which is sufficient enough. “Loki, for fuck’s sake, can you please add me into this secret loop?”    


  
The book shuts, Loki slams it on the table and reaches for another one on the pile. “Look at me, I’m covered in chains. Do you honestly think I am the most well-treated person here?”    
“I didn’t mean it like that, and you know it.” Annoyance ripples through your body. “What else are they doing to you besides keeping you permanently locked up?”    


  
He does not say anything, which in itself is an answer. You hug your arms tightly around your chest, the chill slowly but steadily eating away through the layers of clothes. The food on the table is no longer appetizing, though you still poke at one of the bowls of grain just to put something hot into your mouth. The conversation hangs in the air, suspended for the moment but certainly not over, not with you rehearsing arguments and counter-arguments in your head.    


  
“You know you can trust me.” You say after a long while, looking down at your folded hands.

 

“I do. Which is why I am trusting you with this.” Loki slides over a book, the pages decorated with gold ink vines twisting around the border of the paragraphs. In the center of the page is an illustration of what looks like an ax, a single blade sticking out of one side of the hilt. The artist either fails at properly rendering the runes at the sides, or the ancient language actually looks like wild scribbles. “This is what you will be looking for.”   


  
“An ax.” You observe, unable to read any of the words the book is written in. You don’t even recognize the alphabet. 

  
  
“This is Jarnbjorn,” Loki explains, “forged by the most skilled dwarves of its time.” 

  
  
“Okay, question.” You interrupt, frowning at the page. “If Hela is so bent on creating an army to bring on a… what was it? Reign of eternal night?” 

  
  
“Close enough, though I believe the idea is more Laufey than Hela.” 

  
  
“Why don’t they commision an army’s worth of dangerous weapons? Why do we have to hunt for all these...” You look down at the page quickly, “-doomsday axes? What does this one even do?” 

  
  
“The only blacksmiths who are skilled enough to make such weaponry will not associate with the likes of Laufey. Plus,” Loki rolls his eyes, “let us just say that the Frost Giants have minimal funds to work with.” 

  
  
“So they can’t afford anything new and legendary, so they have to look for things like our doomsday ax here.” You clarify. 

  
  
“Yes. This one is not nearly as dangerous as some other things I have found, however.” Loki closes the book and stares at the table, defeated. “But it is in a place where being human would be an advantage. The last bearer of Jarnbjorn was Malekith the Accursed, a Dark Elf. They keep human and similar species as servants, so as long as you keep your head down and look busy, I doubt anyone would bat an eye at your presence.” 

  
  
“Dark Elves.” You can’t believe that a sentence containing the words  _ Malekith the Accursed _ and _ Dark Elves _ was just said to you with total sincerity. “Okay. Jarnbjorn the magic battle ax. Alright.” 

  
  
“I know that this must be difficult for you to process.” Loki reaches over the corner of the desk to cup your cheek, his thumb wiping away a tear you did not realize slipped away from your eye. “But as long as we are careful and stay focused, you _ will  _ survive this.” 

  
  
You lean into his hand, savoring this moment of touch. In the back of your head, you see blood and intestines, in your ears, you hear screams of gore and agony. It is not enough that you _ just  _ survive, not anymore. A desire to grab on to those who have wronged you and drag them down to the depths of hell is bubbling in your stomach, though the more sane part of you knows not to put much stock in that fantasy. It is a nice thought, though, one that dries your tears and buries your sadness under a layer of bitter hatred.

  
  
“You have your scheming face on, raven,” Loki murmurs, his thumb dragging along your lower lip. “What are you planning?”    


  
“Nothing.” There is nothing for you to plan, especially because you do not know the rules of the game. “Can’t we just…” You place your hand over his, your eyes closed as you breathe in this moment. “Can we pause this? Just for a little while? I need a break before I have a panic attack.” 

 

He tenses, though only for a moment. “Of course.” A kiss, brief and soft, brushes over your lips. “Of course. I’m sorry, this all must be horrible for you.” Another hand is placed over your other cheek, his forehead pressed up against yours. 

 

“We never talked about the night before yesterday.” You get the words out of your mouth, the hesitance to speak of change nearly choking the sentence before it got out. 

 

“No, we have not.” Loki’s hands stay where they are, though you feel a twitch in all his muscles as though he almost pulled away and then decided against it.

 

“I don’t know if I came on too strong.” Shame fills your body when you remember how you begged. “So I-”

 

“Don’t finish that sentence,” Loki says sharply. “Believe me, you have done nothing wrong since you have arrived.” His mouth brushes against yours again, this kiss longer and more emotional than the last. You can taste his hesitance on his lips, and sense that he is holding back, something roaring and bold and hot. 

 

“Yeah?” You whisper breathlessly. 

 

“Yes.” Loki stands, leaving you cold on your chair. Folding his hands in front of his waist, he begins to pace. The soft drag of metal on stone echoes through the room as his chains drag across the stone. When he turns around to face you, his lips are in a nervous smile. “We need to set some ground rules.” 

 

You mull that over. “Okay?”

 

“Okay,” Loki echoes, “the reason for this discussion is that we can’t have you getting pregnant right now.” His voice is strained, as though he so much would rather not have this conversation. 

 

“Oh.” Realization hits you.  _ “Oh.” _  You feel a blush creep up on your neck. 

 

“Neither of us have access to methods that would render you barren, at least for the duration of its application-”

 

“You can say birth control, we aren’t in the 1850s.” 

 

“Right.” Loki unfolds his hands and fidgets with his fingers, unfolding and refolding them in different patterns.  _ Is he… is he nervous?  _ You wonder almost humorously in passing. He glances up at an obelisk hanging against the wall, which you assumed is just something Jotun-y  to tell time. “Which is why,” he finishes, “that, along with some other… facts about my life of which you don’t know about yet, I think we should wait until we have had some discussions.” 

 

“Alright. Discuss away.” You fold one leg over the other and twist to fully face him, expectant. 

 

“I think we should better prepare you for your expedition,” Loki immediately dodges, “which is why I sent in a request for Ilse to take you down to the training room.” 

 

Loud knocking shocks you out of your train of thought. Quickly looking over to the door, you see Ilse sticking her head through the open crack. She gives you her usual smile of blood and teeth, and shivers run down your spine. Quickly looking back to Loki, you narrow your eyes back at him. “You _ planned _ this,” you hiss with frustration. Loki, to his credit, at least had the sensibility to look mildly guilty. 

 

“You better not keep me waiting!” Ilse yells from the doorway.

 

Because you deeply prefer to keep all of your intestines inside your body and in the proper order, you get up in a huff and march over to where your torturer stands. She, with a joyous grin on her face that makes you  _ immensely _ uncomfortable, leads down a long flight of stairs and into another hallway. Though you are always vigilant in keeping an eye out wherever you go, the internal map that you have built in your head is still lacking. But at least now that you are sober, wide awake and not focused on only getting to your destination without collapsing, you observe as much as you possibly can. 

 

The training room is not nearly as cavernous as you first thought it would be. The walls on one side are lined with wooden cutouts of people, varying greatly in size. You suppose when the soldiers go out a-murderin’, they want to be well trained in killing anyone despite stature. Several people are in the room, slaves hugging the wall opposite of the targets, some kneeling, others just watching, standing still as statues while they wait for any beck and call from their masters. Those who are training stop and stare at you, every step carefully scrutinized by those viciously crafted to find weakness. 

 

_ Show them a taste of fear _ , the voice inside you murmurs.  _ Show them what you can do. _

 

Ilse stops in front of a smaller Frost Giant, one with hair so fine and shining it looks like threads of silver. Though he is, you guess you can say, ‘shorter’ than the rest of his brethren, he is still significantly taller than you. Which is something you do not appreciate one bit because it looks like Ilse is going to pit you against Abs-MacBiceps-Dude and money is not going to be on you. 

 

“Cute Human, this is your opponent for the day, Satan.” Ilse introduces you. 

 

“Oh! How nice.” You say, not finding it nice at all. All of your anxiety is currently reaching peak levels. Nirvana should come shortly. 

 

“Satan, this is my pet project. Try not to break her too terribly, we need her in one piece.” Ilse pushes you into the ring, a crudely drawn circle lining the edges. 

 

“Aren’t you going to give me pointers or something on how to fight?” You ask, glancing back at her. 

 

Ilse shrugs. “Survive.”

 

You turn back to Satan, who is smiling, unsurprisingly, devilishly. Letting out a sigh of defeat, you square your shoulders and feel in the ground for any and all energy to absorb and utilize. “Okay,” you mutter, “let’s get today over with.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So NaNo update: I'm deeply behind lol. 
> 
> I took a little vacation to Chicago with all the pretense and motivation to write and then ended up... not doing that. Which means I have to kick this bitch into gear if I want to make it to 50 grand by the end of the month. Oh Well.


	16. Chapter 16

“Loki Laufeyson, what am I supposed to do with this?” Ilse gestures in your general direction, before placing her hands on her hips and glaring at him with her unusually terrifying gaze. 

 

“You are the person who is supposed to be supervising her training, so why don’t you tell me?” 

 

While you sit on his bed, your face stinging from a certain Satanic punch that you, unfortunately, were not able to dodge, you listen to their conversation steadily unravel from the facade of calm and civil both parties attempted to build. Even though dinner is just an hour or two away, the first thing you had Loki do when you returned, dragged by the arm as Ilse yelled obscenities in at least three different dialects, was order you a pile of steaming food. Swinging your legs back and forth absentmindedly, you shove another spoonful of stew into your mouth as you watch the two approach the point where they are preparing to rip the other’s throat out. 

 

“I CAN’T TRAIN SOMEONE WHO TELEKINETICALLY LAUNCHES HER OPPONENTS INTO ORBIT AT THE FIRST SIGN OF TROUBLE.” 

 

“YOU THREW HER INTO A FIGHT AND JUST TOLD HER TO SURVIVE!” Loki matches her volume, his rage at the danger you were put in electrifying the air. He steps back, breathing deeply and masking his anger before the fight gets out of control. “You were supposed to at the very least offer her some direction! You can’t just expect someone to just roll over and take a beating.” 

 

Ilse taps her foot impatiently, rolling her eyes. “Well I was  _ going to, _ until she decided that she was Too Good for old fashioned hand to hand and fucking pulled some psychic powers out of her ass, by the way, Loki,” she gives him a lovely smile, “when were you going to tell us just how special this human girl is?” 

 

“None of her sorcery is any of your business, you should be focusing on her combat skills.” 

 

“Which I  _ can’t, obviously, _ when she is USING SORCERY TO THROW HER OPPONENTS AWAY.” 

 

Loki brings his folded his hands to his face and closes, his eyes, clearly fighting with himself to keep a wall of calm up and in front of his anger. “Alright,” he finally says after a few moments of livid silence, “obviously there were certain expectations on both sides that were not met.” He looks over to you and slightly jerks his head to the side, beckoning you to join them. 

 

Reluctantly, you do. Sliding off the bed in a huff, you set your bowl down on the bed table (those things have got to be enchanted, your soup has not cooled the slightest since you received it, though your nose is now red with cold). You cross your arms as you approach them, letting out a huff that dissipates in the air in soft steam. Giving Loki your bestest, most sweetest smile, you say, “yes?”

 

“If she is willing to stave off her… telekinetic outbursts, would you,” he turns to Ilse, “be willing to teach her hand to hand in a more private locations? Away from the public eye?”

 

“I’m going to need more than  _ that, _ you cutie-patootie.” Ilse carefully looks over her manicured nails. 

 

“Right, well, we can talk about payment later, can’t we,” Loki states calmly, glaring at her like she is a bug under a microscope. 

  
  


She glances over to you, her lips pulled in a smug smile. “Yes, I suppose we can. Though there is nothing else I can do for tonight, if she survives the campaign like you say she will, I’m sure there are lots of things she can learn under my thumb.” 

 

That doesn’t sound particularly delightful. As soon as Ilse is out the door, the lock’s click firmly resonating through the room, you turn to Loki. “Why can’t  _ you _ teach me combat?”

 

“Because I am not nearly talented in the subject as Ilse,” Loki says gruffly, turning, so he does not have to face you. He pretends to be positively enamored in the bookshelf, running his fingers over the inscriptions. 

 

“That’s fair, I guess.” You huff for what seems like the hundredth time today, your breath still leaving a condensation trail from your mouth. Narrowing your eyes, you glare into his back as he carefully and meticulously rearranges two books from their original places. “Don’t think that I have forgotten our other conversation. 

 

Loki turns around in the very picture of innocence. “I would not dream of it, my raven.”

 

“Good.” You stand up straighter and look him over with a twice critical eye. He is wearing a green tunic today, the sleeves going down just over his wrists when he does not have them pushed up. The material does not seem exceptionally thin, and though you would not think of wearing anything less than the full winter outfit, Loki looks perfectly fine.  His is not even wearing shoes to protect his feet from the stone floor. 

 

“I put in a work order for a fireplace.” He gestures to an empty area on the wall. “So you will not be so cold.” 

 

“Uh-huh.” You arch an eyebrow.

 

“And… Ilse is going to have you go down to the armory to be fitted the day after tomorrow.” 

 

“Okay.”

 

“Tonight at dinner, Hela will send you out on the expedition.” 

 

“So I gathered.”

 

“Right.” Loki coughs. “I can shapeshift.” 

 

You lean forward, your focus zeroing in on him. Making your voice sound infinitely gentler, you ask. “And?” 

 

“And sometimes.” Loki takes a deep breath. “I switch forms. Occasionally, in situations, I feel more comfortable to be something 

 

“If we… are to…” Loki lets out a huff of awkward frustration. 

 

“Have sex?” You offer. 

 

“Yes. That.” Loki’s hands tighten around yours. “I might not want to always be…. Male.” 

 

You look him over. “Oh.  Oh, yeah, I get it.” You remember reading about that in those mythology books, though you were unsure of how much stock to put into those stories until now. 

 

“I don’t know if that will bother you, which is why, before we go further in our relationship, you need to know that.” Loki gives you a weak smile. “I would not have you walk into something with… things of such importance left unsaid.”  

 

Your heart feels warm with his honesty, at his trust in you. Giving him a quick peck on the mouth, you wrap your hands around his waist. “Thank you for telling me.” You rest your head on his chest and close your eyes, listening to the sound of his breathing.

 

His lips press against the top of your head. “Are you comfortable with it?”

 

“I trust you explicitly. That does not change no matter what form you take.” You crane your neck to meet his eyes. “Can you turn into an animal?” 

 

“I haven’t tried recently.” He gives you a strange look. “Why?”

 

“Did you ever fuck a horse?” 

 

Loki rolls his eyes to the ceiling. “Did I ever- why would you even _ think  _ that I would-”

 

“The Complete Collection of Norse Mythology.” You give him an innocent smile. “I read some interesting things about you in there. Let me tell you, a whole bunch of people are saying that you turned into a lady horse, then fucked a dude horse, then gave birth to an eight-legged Super Horse.” 

 

“Oh, do they, now.” Loki smiles thinly, his eyes straining to keep from popping from their sockets. 

 

“Anyways,” you kiss him on the mouth casually, “as long as your horse-fucking days are over, your shapeshifting will be considerably easy to handle. Now are we going to train or are you going to bless my body with all those things you can do?” 

 

“As much as I’d enjoy ravaging you until you scream for mercy, I believe that we should better prepare you for your journey today.” He cocks his head. You give him a tight, vicious smile and arch your eyebrows. He laughs, his own smile genuine and beautiful. “I’m sorry, I must be sure no child is sired inside you.” 

 

That. Right. “Do you have like, a spell or a plan or something?” You ask, unsure of what method he has up his sleeve. 

 

Loki untangles himself from your arms and walks over to his desk, picking up a knife. “I have an idea.” He starts to clear space from the table, stacking books and pushing them aside. “It might not work, but it still is an idea.” 

  
  


“I’m listening.” 

 

“So it would be combining both Blood Magick and Sorcery, though mixing the two can be a hit or miss in most cases.” Loki gestures for you to get on the table. Once you have hopped onto the wood, Loki says, “You will need to remove your coat and shirt. Your stomach needs to be bare.” 

 

The bitter cold in the air is still a shock, though you know to expect it. Unbuttoning your coat is one ordeal, taking off the tunic under is another and facing the frigid temperatures with unprotected skin is another. It only takes a few moments for the cold to seep into your bones, causing your teeth to chatter. The coat is then laid on the table to protect your back from the frozen wood. You slip your arms through the sleeves to stave off frostbite, goosebumps raising on every square inch of your body. 

 

“I will work fast,” Loki promises, placing his hand on your stomach, just above the waistline of your pants. He closes his eyes and presses down, looking for the exact placement of your womb. 

 

A thrill runs through your body, sharp bursts of shivers sparking through your nerves at his touches. You exhale slowly, trying to think of anything to keep your slowly forming arousal in check. Your breasts pebble up as his fingers press lower. Every touch seems to hit some kind of pressure point that sends ripples of heat through your body, sending them off and pulling them back to your core, a familiar pressure beginning to build. 

 

When he opens his eyes, the bright, reflective light of the sun makes his irises appear less hooded with melancholy. Loki gives you a gentle smile of encouragement, running his index finger from just below your ribs down to where your legs begin to part. “This needs to be precise, so I need you to stay as still as possible.” 

 

You nod your assent, then lay your head back down. Loki raises the knife and cuts at the heel of his palm, just before the wrist. He mutters words you could never hope to pronounce or understand, guttural, low, forming in the back of his throat and then coughed forward. Using his other hand, he swipes at the blood with his index and middle fingers, then begins to paint a sigil onto your stomach. The blood is a warm relief against the air, Loki’s hand steady as he calmly draws the geometrical lines necessary for the spell. 

 

A bright red glow eliminated from your stomach, only for a second, before the blood melts into your flesh and begins to work its purpose. Loki helps you sit back up, and while he fetched your discarded tunic from the floor, you look down at the skin he put a spell on. The sigil is quickly fading, the faint glow fizzling out like a smothered flame. 

 

“What exactly did you do?” You ask, slipping your tunic over your head. 

 

“It is supposed to keep seeds from taking in their soil and growing,” Loki says. “A rather weak agricultural spell to keep gardens from growing. It is a fairly small scale spell and has no practical use as a weapon. It ceases working in about a month, perhaps even sooner if it rains.” 

 

“We are using pesticide for bootleg birth control.” You say calmly, the dark humor of the situation not quite hitting you yet. 

 

“Well it’s  _ sorcery _ ,” Loki says indignantly and helps you down from the table.  “And with the blood magick, which is a kind of strengthener and an all-purpose tool, the spell should do what it was designed to do and keep your womb empty for the month. Any extra, unnecessary blood magick will leave your body with your next cycle.” 

 

“This is all theoretical, though.” You respond, buttoning your jacket back up while Loki returns the books back to their designated places.

 

“And theoretically, it will work.” Loki seems satisfied with the arrangement of books. “But it will take thirteen hours to fully take effect. Which is just enough time for you to rest, then for us to go down to dinner and send you on your journey.” 

 

You nod. “A nap. Yes. I can probably do that.” 

 

“I can arrange a sleeping drought be made for you.” Loki places his hands over the stack of books he made. “While you sleep, I will begin a spell that will help you track down Jarnbjorn.” 


	17. Chapter 17

That sleeping drought must be the shit because you do not even remember drinking it. All you know is that you are suddenly waking up to Loki gently shaking you into consciousness. “There we are,” he says quietly, his fingers stroking down the length of your face. “It is time to go.” 

 

“Go where?” You sit up drowsily, blinking your itching eyes. 

 

“To the armory. Here, hold out your wrist.” Loki lifts your arm and ties something golden around it. Then he pulls you down from the bed and helps you into your boots. 

 

“Why are we going to the armory?” You yawn, thousands of rolls of cotton candy taking the place of your brain. Everything feels remarkably fuzzy. 

 

“What do people typically do in an armory, raven?” Loki responds in stride, holding out your arms and assisting you with the coat buttons. 

 

“Oh.” A marginal amount of your typical intelligence returns. “We’re getting armor for tonight.” There are millions of things you would love to do instead of flouncing into another evil person’s castle and retrieving some kind of magical weapon that would only aid those who hold the two of you prisoner.  

 

“Exactly. Ilse is eagerly awaiting our arrival, so let’s not keep her for any longer.” Loki hands you a mug of steaming something and begins to usher you down to the door. A guard is already waiting for you on the other side to undo Loki’s room chain. Once that was removed, you and Loki follow the blue giant down the halls towards the armory. 

 

There are at least some pieces of armor that look your size, you notice as you and Loki weave your way through the rows of breastplates and armguards, though none of them seem particularly sturdy in comparison to what the giant following you firmly wears. 

 

Apparently, there is no need to fret because once you spot Ilse, you also see a set of armor sitting on a you-sized mannequin. The giantess waves you over impatiently, and you try to drain the rest of the tea before you have to stand still as a doll. 

 

Handing Loki the mug, you follow the instructions given to you and stand on a little pedestal in the center of the room. The armor is mostly already measured out to your specifications, all that is left to do is to work out any kinks. 

 

Hands remove your jacket, a heavy set of chainmail pulling over your head to replace it. Smiths hold out long, thin sticks with fire blowing out of the end, watching Ilse pull a metallic corset around your waist. Apparently ‘working out kinks’ involves little magick blowtorches that heat the metal enough to work with, while still on your body, to make sure everything is as form-fitting as possible. You close your eyes, so you do not have to watch the fire lick dangerously close to the flammable cloth.

 

A hand reaches over and squeezes yours. “All done,” Loki says, pulling you away from from the dais where you were standing. “Off to dinner, now.” 

 

You look at yourself in the mirror provided by the smithing team. The chainmail is thin and light, though you can’t feel your finger through the material when you poke at your stomach. The corset around your waist is tight and made of dark polished metal, trimmed with a shiny blue material. Through the poking and prodding, you had not noticed that someone slipped a shoulder guard on, made from the same thing as your corset. You do not know  _ why _ they gave you a shoulder guard, especially since you would not know how best to use it to your advantage in a fight, but whatever. It does not feel particularly heavy, in comparison to the chainmail at least.

 

Then your legs are suddenly moving as Loki pushes you away from your reflection. “What do you think?” You ask him as the two of you retreat further into the depths of the castle. 

 

“I think…” Loki glances down at you, checking the craftsmanship of the armor once more. “I think that you deserve much better.” 

 

You are not sure if that is a compliment towards you or a livid critique towards the blacksmith, so you say nothing in response. 

 

The grand hall is just as uncomfortably crowded as you remember. Loki holds your hand with an unbreakably tight grip, his knuckles turning porcelain white under strain. Through his skin, you can feel the almost unsteady beat of his pulse pumping through his veins, the only sign you can find to signify his nervousness. Outwardly, he seems as coolly detached from everyone else as ever, shimmering eyes pointing straight ahead, mouth in a thin line. 

 

To the immediate left of the throne, in between pillars that you can tell were once intricately ornate at some point, is a machine. You can taste the power that fizzles through the air, bitter, acidic like the energy is ancient and volatile, almost too unstable to even be near. 

 

“It’s a rhombicuboctahedron,” you whisper to Loki, trying not to stumble over the plethora of syllables. One of your more eccentric professors had given two extra points to whoever could pronounce it correctly, and boy diggity, you are always about extra bonus points. 

 

“A what?” He asks, voice barely loud enough for you to hear. 

 

“A three-dimensional shape consisting of eight triangles and eighteen squares. It was supposed to be a big deal to construct back in the middle ages, but whatever. Fun earthy math fact for you.” The electric hum buzzes in the back of your skull as you step closer. 

 

Loki opens one of the triangles in the side, pulling out a perfectly smooth obsidian sphere about the size of a baseball. Placing it carefully in your palm, he then presses hard on the top. A seam that had not been there before appears, letting out a slight blue glow as the top opens to reveal a small panel of buttons. 

 

“This is nothing more than a beacon,” Loki explains, “so I can find you and pull you back when you need it. But I should only have to once you have Jarnbjorn, do you understand?” 

 

“I do.” You know he is only this stiff and cold as a kind of performance for other people to watch, but some of it gets under your skin. Unwittingly, you think of Doctor Strange’s statement, about Loki only using you for power. 

 

“Normally,” his voice lowers, "there will be a whole fanfare before sending you off, but I think this way is significantly more efficient.” His slender fingers run down one of the machine’s many faces. “Place your hand on the square.”

 

You obey, the metallic substance pleasant and warm against your palm. 

 

“Remember, use the lock of hair to guide you to the weapon. Stay out of sight. Don’t engage with the Dark Elves unless it is absolutely necessary.” A sliver of concern glimmers in his eyes, quickly replaced by a carefully built facade of indifference. “Good luck.” 

  
  


Every atom in your body separates, like little sparks of a fire, blown by the machine across a part of the universe, reassembling back into what you once were. A choking breath escaped your lungs, stumbling with surprise into a damp wall, slimy to the touch. It only takes a few steadying inhales for the smell to fully hit you, a putrefying rot so thick it splits your sinuses open like a cleaver. Your stomach retches once, then fully empties itself before you even have time to fully process the aching. 

 

Tears and snot mix along the edge of your chin, and you have nothing but scraggly metal to wipe it with. Whose fucking idea was it to send you into a fortress wearing enemy armor, anyway? Isn’t this mission supposed to be entirely dependant on the fact that you shouldn’t draw any attention on yourself? Finding the fastens of the shoulder guard, you loosen the leather and let it fall off your arm. Then you undo the slab of metal around your waist so you can wiggle out of the ridiculous chainmail tunic. Your arm and shin guards can stay, you decide, as well as the corset. 

 

While you figure out how to properly fasten some of your armor pieces back on, the thing around your wrist constricts. During one of your physics lectures, your professor took out his pride and joy to show the class. It was some kind of magnet set, and he would have the students stand with one of the two in their hands. When you held the magnet out, you could feel it straining to get back to its mate, about a full meter away. That’s what the bracelet on your wrist feels like it’s doing, tugging your arm forward in the search for its other part. 

 

Unfortunately, it’s pulling towards a flood of water. 

 

It laps against the floor, and using the light from the orb, you notice a thick layer of algae growing along the walls. You don’t see if the hall ends, nor can you tell how deep the water is. With minimal choice, and wanting this over as soon as possible, you step into the water. Oh  _ god, _ the smell. It’s coming  _ from _ the water, you realize as you begin to wade through, green slime sticking to your leggings. The silt you stir up seems to churn out that decaying reek, as though this place itself is slowly rotting from the inside out. 

 

The water is shockingly warm. You expected something just short of freezing, as though your time in Jotunheim has wholly destroyed any expectations of feeling anything but cold ever again. It’s not pleasant, though, the slime of growth clinging to the fabric of your pants and the hem of your tunic. Fortunately, you note, the water level seems to stay at just over your knees and no deeper. Yes, your life is on the line, but in comparison to wading through this gunk at chest-height, maybe death isn’t so bad.

 

Eyes stinging with the stench, you try your hardest to breathe out of your mouth as you trudge through this dumpster fire of a nightmare. Something behind you splashes. You don’t turn to look. Even though everything seems pretty bad at the moment, you think, at least the pulling on your wrist stays vaguely in the same direction as you follow the curving hallway. 

 

Then, as though the cold, unfeeling universe heard your thought and decided to spite you further, your arm swings around and points directly to the wall.

 

“Oh.” You say out loud to no one but yourself. “I guess I’ll just fuck myself, then.” 

 

You suppose that the spell Loki put on the bracelet of… _ hair _ doesn't take into account things like walls or other obstacles you would have to navigate. And, anyways, who the fuck did the strand even come from? Clearly not Loki, since the coloring could barely be any more opposite on the spectrum, and you haven’t seen any traces of blond in the Jotun gene pool... 

 

Again, there’s the splashing noise behind you, so that direction is out of the question. You begin to move forward, ignoring the tug of your arm as the lock of hair tries to pull you back, finding a stable looking set of stairs to climb up. The wall is equally slimy as the steps, so you can’t even brace yourself against something if you slip. That’s  _ fine, _ you just move with deliberate slowness. 

 

There is torchlight just up ahead, which means that you’re about the walk into a place that’s at least vaguely populated. As though confirming the hypothesis, you hear voices growing closer with every passing second. Hastily, you try to find somewhere to stuff the orb, your pockets don’t even come close to cutting it, goddamnit why didn’t you think to bring your backpack-

 

You have never been happier to be in a place with shitty architecture. Close to your foot, you find a pile of rubble again the wall. Quickly kneeling, you manage to pull an orb-shaped bit of debris away, shoving the beacon in, light first. You barely manage to cover it and stand as two people round the corner. They look at you, the gunk on your legs, your hands green from touching the wall, mud cakes under your nails. You have exactly two seconds to come up with a story that they would believe. 

 

“Heyyyyyyyyy,” you finger-gun them as though the three of you are old friends. “I was just down there, and I know the answer to your question.  _ Yes, _ there is absolutely something skulking around in the mud. Something big.”

  
  



End file.
